


Songs of Stone

by Valandhir



Series: The Raven's Blade [6]
Category: Silmarillion, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age Backstory to "The Raven's Blade", Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stranger meeting the elves in shadow upon their wanderings, two peoples encounter before they should, a stone from a fallen star and a spell that should change the path of fate itself. Later they would tell legends about it. But when it happened, nothing was quite as the chronicles claimed. First Age Backstory to the "Raven's Blade Series"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

** Author’s Foreword **

****

I certainly had not planned on the next project right away but several friends asked me about the backstory of “Raven’s Blade” especially all the events of the First Age I touched upon. Blame Tara6 and Mimi_Sardinia for it! And I will honestly admit, that this is a project I approach a bit apprehensively, because I have great respect of Tolkien’s work and this will deviate from his story-telling in style and events in many places. Many elements I mentioned in “Raven’s Blade” will show up here – the Silver Throne and the First Dwarven Kingdom, Egandîr and his friendship with Maglor… Aelin and what exactly it was he did in Sirion havens. Probably also Ulfang, Bor and their choices up to a certain battle and the journey might stray into Angband itself at times. (Those who know me, know why.)

 

This story can be read without knowing the entire “Raven’s Blade” Arc, but those who know might recognize some characters again. I cannot yet say how swiftly this story will write, as I am treading new territory here. I will try and make notes about greater deviations from canon, and give reasons for them, where possible.

 

For this chapter the changes are the following: The _War for the sake of the Elves_ and the _Great Journey/Great Sundering_ are in canon events happening after one another – here they are happening at the same time. The Valar have called the Elves to Valinor, and at the same time they attack Melkor, to ensure he cannot harm the Firstborn. It is a change mainly for dramatic reasons.

 

Generally I will be deviating from the numbers Tolkien gives – regarding Elves and Dwarves. The Elves are more than 144 and the Dwarves were sent to sleep with more than just their spouses, but with the basics of their entire tribe. This is done, to simply explain how they could develop into a full race and found such realms so swiftly. As for the Dwarves – they woke AFTER the Elves, but as Tolkien never said when exactly, I chose that it was not all that long after.

 

Language wise: I have yet to decide if I go with the Quenya names of the Noldor in this story, or if I should use their Sindarized named early for reader’s ease. In “Raven’s Blade” I had Maedhros mostly use his epessë Russandol, which was his way of creating some distance between himself and his legend. Now, I am not sure if I should simply use Maedhros, to make this story easier to be read, or if I should better go with Maitimo at first and switch during the run of the story.  I am in no way an expert on Elven Languages and find them confusing more often than not.

 

Lastly: Those who already know “Raven’s Blade” won’t be surprised finding unknown names here – in this time frame more than ever I might be forced to invent the one or other character, especially to fill up the ranks of the dark side. Now: on to the story!

 

****

** Prologue: A path through the wilderness **

****

The stars glistened coldly in the dark skies above and sometimes Rávaner believed he could see the reflections in the ice-capped peaks high above them. The glistening ice sparkled in such moments like jewels of the cold, a light that alone would have made him curious to try and reach those regions high above. The Mountains had loomed in their path for a long time, visible from afar and they certainly had discouraged more than a few of the others, not to speak of those who had fallen behind in the great forests. Rávaner did try not to think about them, he had enough of the others to find already, to think of those where he exactly knew where they were. How far ahead would Finwë be already by now? Too far ahead he feared, the wandering through the wilds had drawn the groups apart.

 

Spotting a familiar figure between the trees on the Mountainside he sped up his pace to reach him. “Turayne, I feared I would not find you, Wérano said that you missed the pass.” Stepping through the undergrowth between the trees he saw that Turayne was squatted down beside another figure, his bow was still at hand, his entire stance was guarded.

 

“I followed your brother, Rávaner, hoping to dissuade him from his chosen course,” he replied in a hush, “but I came upon the dangers we were warned about.”

 

Walking closer Rávaner looked down on the prone figure on the ground beside Turayne. “Was it this thing?” he asked, frowning. “What an ugly creature is this?”

 

“I do not know, but he was no danger for me,” Turyane shook his head, “he fled from some darker things that hunted him. I shot them, but their remains fell into the ravine, so I do not know whether they were beast or other things.”

 

“It seems quite dead too,” Rávaner did not want to touch the hairy thing on the ground, it was the ugliest creature he had yet seen and he was certain that the warning of dark things roaming these lands extended to them, meant such creatures.

 

“He was injured,” Turyane seemed amused by his disgust, but his friend had always been the one to go out and time the wild things, no matter how dangerous or ugly they were. “I did what I could, but his broken ribs will inconvenience him for a while. And he is certainly no best, though I do not know what else he might be. He is none of our kin.”

 

Now, upon a closer look, Rávaner noticed a familiar sparkled near the creatures neck – how could that neck be covered by so much hair? Or was it even fur? What beings grew fur in their faces? “You gave him your lifestone, Turayne? Why? You made this stone back by the lake… and you will need it when we go on. It is a long way still to go.”

 

Turayne rose, spreading his travelling cloak over the unconscious figure. “He will not heal without the stone, and I can well go on without one. You came this far quite well without one, my friend. Let us not argue about it.”

 

Rávaner inclined his head, accepting Turyane’s wish, their friendship often meant that they would forgo arguing points were they were vastly different. “Wéron and the others will need your to make the crossing,” he came back to the point why he had chased after Turyane. “And what was that about my brother – and where is Larcanor and his friends?”

 

“They went North, hoping that these Mountains might end somewhere and they could go around them,” Turyane sighed, “I had hoped to convince at least your brother that this was foolishness, but he said the pass was nothing they could cross. Larcanor went with him, though I fear he might still wish to go back to the forest lands.”

 

“We were warned not to go North, it is dangerous there,” Rávaner took the warning seriously, though there was a side to him that wondered what might lie up there that they should not see. “Go back to Wéron, Turayne, I will chase after them and bring them back.” He had done so before while they had crossed the wilds, finding those who got lost or strayed from the path. Unafraid to brave the vast dark wilderness alone, it had earned him any number of nicknames from his friends, but in the end it was necessary.

 

“I hope you will find them swiftly,” Turyane said, before he took off to return to Wéron and the others. Rávaner watched him leave, glad that Turayne had listened, for some reason he had wondered if his friend might stay with this strange creature he had saved. It would be so like him. No, they had to go on, they had promised they would. Without further delay he took off towards the North, following the long chain of Mountains that seemed to reach the stars themselves.

 

TRB

 

Rávaner counted the time of his passing through the wilds by the rise and falling of several bright stars that circled the skies in a regular pattern, the entire constellation reminded him of an archer, and the chain of three pronouncedly shining stars forming a belt in the skies was easy to spot. It had passed through the skies twelve times since he had set out to find his brother and the other lost ones. The Mountain chain remained high and forbidding to his left, and the grounds were rough, but those things hardly assailed him. The further he made his path through the wilderness, the more his heart sung, trees whispered in the winds, now and then he heard the murmuring of waters and the stars lit his path always.

 

Here and there he found traces of the other’s passage, telling him he was still on the right trail. It was the thirteenth time he saw the constellation of the archer rise, when he finally saw them – they had deviated from their path alongside the mountains and now were slowly moving through the more even grounds below. Rávaner frowned, there were too many rivers and creeks going towards that plain, it might look inviting but he was sure it was murky. Ornamo would not have been tempted to choose the easy path again and ended up in a swamp?

 

Keeping to the mountains as long as he could, Rávaner followed them, only entering the plains when he had no choice if he wanted to reach them. He was not surprised to find himself in the murk swiftly, ever light on his feet he found his path by jumping from one save spot to the next, but it made traversing these grounds harder than following the mountains. When he reached the travelers he easily recognized his brother Ornamo, who stood at the top of the column arguing with Itilano. Seeing his brother and best friend argue was not something Rávener had wished to find, but at least he had found them, though he could still not see any trace of Larcanor and his comrades.

 

His approach had been spotted by them, for their arguing ended and they turned around. “Rávanor,” Ornamo’s voice echoed some disbelief. “I had not expected you to come after us.”

 

“And I had not expected you to get lost in the wilds,” Rávaner replied, greeting Itilano with a short hug, glad to see him alive and well. “you strayed so much off the path I began to worry you  might have gone back to the woodlands.”

 

“I merely chose to search for a better path,” Ornamo argued, “but now that you have found us, you will certainly be able to guide us out of these swamps.”

 

“I already told you it was best we went back and tried for the pass,” Itilano spoke up, “be it the one we were pointed to or the one Larcanor thought he found.”

 

Ornamo straightened up and Rávaner recognized the warning sign – his brother disliked being questioned, especially by those he perceived as younger and lesser than him. “We will not go back, Itilano, these mountains will end and we will go around them. It is too long a path to now turn back. I will not have it.”

 

Rávaner wondered where his brother found his confidence at times, but he also saw the nods of many in the group. They would not listen, thus he’d have to find another way. “First we need to get out of these swamps,” he said firmly, “I hope we will find Larcanor somewhere on the other side of the Mountains, or I will have to search for him too.” He walked past his brother to take the lead of the group, ahead North lay uncharted grounds.

 

TRB

 

Nine risings and fallings of the Archer’s star later Rávaner began to doubt his own skill in navigating these wilds, the swamps had dragged on endlessly, and when he had finally found his way out of them, things had not improved much. A rough land without trees stretched before them, rocks and bushes alternating with small ponds glittering in the starlight. The mountains to their left truly did end, but the grounds they now had to traverse to circumvent their Northern end were not any easier than the pass had been.

 

Most of the time he focused on finding a way together with Itilano and ignoring his brother and his speeches, it was the best way to get along, otherwise they would end up in an inevitable argument. Though now, they were not so far off one, anyway. Ornamo had insisted on not crossing the great ravine that blocked their path, but climb down and follow the bottom of the deep chasm, as it would be easier to walk and they would find an easy way to climb out eventually. Only that the ravine had stretched further North, until it became so narrow and rough that it took all their skill to follow it further.

 

Rávaner had found water when the Archer rose again, in a wellspring under a heavy overhang of rocks, though he was surprised that the water pouring from the rocks was warm and tasted oddly. But it was water, enough for them to drink and continue onwards. They had gathered by the small wellspring when he heard the crack, it sounded painful like the stones themselves were groaning, and suddenly Rávaner felt a terror that he had never felt before, a horror that crept into his blood, he could not tell from whence it came, but it clenched his heart and he found himself unable to move.

 

The grounds shook, the very stones under their feet began moving, like a deep anger had touched them. “Run!” Rávaner found his way out of the daze, pointing ahead. “away from the overhang!” He all but pushed his brother to move, helping the others to scramble out under the roof of rocks now creaking dangerously low. The grounds shook anew and he saw Itilano fall, running back he grabbed his friend, helping him up, together they sprinted after the others, while the stones shook and the Earth rolled under them like water might roll under a boat.

 

Thunderous noise rose behind them and when he turned around Rávaner saw the rocks of the overhang come crashing down, the sides of the chasm collapsing in on themselves and the ground opening to swallow some of the stones. Dust rose high, blinding his sight. “Further on, away from the collapse,” he pushed the others again, in the narrow ravine they had only little room but he wanted them as far away from that collapse as he could.

 

Finally the grounds calmed and the dust settled, but behind them the path was blocked by piles of rock filling the chasm. “We are trapped,” Histelle whispered, her eyes wide in fear. “There is no way out.” They had come to the very end of the ravine, standing between the steep walls and the caved in area.

 

Rávaner craned his neck to look up the rocks. “We will have to climb,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I will find a path for you. Keep the others together, and help each other while we climb out.”

 

The rocks were sharp under his fingers, as Rávener pulled himself over another protruding ledge, his hands were tired and his arms bled from the cuts the jagged stones had left on them. Peering back he saw the others following the path he had found for them. If he craned his neck he could see the rim of the ravine further up, it was still quite the path to climb and he was exhausted. Leaning his forehead against the cold stone he wondered if he would have the strength to reach the upper end, to guide the others out. It was not a question he should ask, the others relied on him to find the path.

 

Pushing himself away from the rim he reached for the next hold, using one hand and a small support for his foot to press on, left of him rose a long sharp ledge, like a blade he reached for that spike and swung his leg up, reaching the upper side, where he again secured the rope that should help the others to follow. Balancing to the inner end of the spike he used what little support he could find in the rock face to continue upwards. His arms burned and he had to be careful that his shaking hands did not miss the small holds in the wall. Finally he reached the upper end of the ravine, putting his hand above the rim, but tiredly his arm slipped, and he desperately struggled to regain his hold, feeling himself slip from the tenuous stand he had.

 

A strong hand grasped his arm before he could fall, breaking his slide and then pulling him up. A second hand extended to him and he grasped it, using his feet to support the unexpected helper as he was pulled out of the ravine and found himself standing on the high ledge above the chasm. “Careful,” a deep voice spoke, “that den is not a place to traipse around in.”

 

Looking up Rávaner found himself face to face with a tall stranger, he easily towered Rávaner, though he did not seem disproportionately tall, the finely chiseled features that would easily surpass any elf in beauty, were framed by thick dark hair, keen eyes held Rávener’s gaze so firmly that he would have called them commanding. “We did learn that too,” he replied, though words seemed to fail him at first, “I thought we might never find our way out again.”

 

“There are more down there?” The stranger asked, “you must have been grave danger indeed to risk wandering such path.” And without waiting for an answer he returned to the edge of the chasm, aiding the others to climb out as well. Eventually all of the elves had reached safe grounds, most of them sitting down to rest after this ordeal.

 

Rávener turned to the stranger anew. “You have my gratitude for your help, you may well have saved us all.” He said, bowing slightly. “My name is Rávener, and I am in your debt for aiding my people.”

 

“I doubt you would know my name in your tongue,” the stranger said, “but you may call me Halanor and it would not be wrong.”

 

Halanor, the Shadowed One, Rávener wondered why the name of the stranger might be forbidden for them to speak in their own language, but he did not ask, it would have felt presumptuous. “Then you have my thanks, Halanor,” the name came easily to him, it fit in a way, though he could not quite say way.

 

“Do not speak of thanks, or debts, Rávener,” Halanor had led him a little away from the other, where they could sit down between a few rocks. “those who send you on this journey did little to aid your people to cross these lands. They should have warned you away from that chasm.”

 

“We were warned to come so far North, though I do not know why,” Rávener admitted, he did not want to speak badly of the Lords who had send them on the journey, yet he could not quite disagree with Halanor either.

 

“Do not fear,” Halanor’s voice echoed an easy confidence as he spoke, “this land is dangerous, but you will not come to harm, I shall not allow it. Your people are exhausted by the march, they will need to rest.”

 

He was right, most of them were tired from the long march, the crossing of the swamp and the time in the ravine, Rávener agreed silently. “I doubt we dare stay long here,” he said nevertheless. “we need to press on and I have yet to find another friend who tried to cross the mountains a little south of here.”

 

“I know a safe place, where your people can find the rest they need,” Halanor offered, “it will be easier for them to march swiftly once they have recovered a little.”

 

It was sound advice and Rávener saw that. “I would be grateful for your help, Halanor.” He liked the thought of staying in Halanor’s company for at least a little while longer.

 

Within another passing of the Archer’s Star Halanor had led them to a small lake, deeply entrenched between the volcanic bedrock of the Northern Mountains, while the land itself was cold, the valley echoed an unusual warmth and the elves were glad for the rest they could find. Thanks to Halanor they also found food and no dark beings or dangers strayed close to their hideout.

 

While the others were resting, Halanor approached Rávener. “I heard Itilano say that you planned on leaving soon,” he observed coming to stand close to Rávener on the entrance of the valley. “your friends are not yet ready to continue their march.”

 

Rávener sighed, he did not want to leave either. “Itilano can guide them onwards, once they are rested enough,” he said, “I have yet to find Larcanor and my heart warns me to delay this duty. I fear for him.”

 

He felt Halanor’s strong hand on his shoulder. “Duty rests strongly upon you,” he said in his dark voice, “and it is a burden others placed on you. If you truly have to leave, there is a path south that will lead to the hidden pass your friend will have attempted to use. It is not much but you are swift and skillful in the wilds, I am sure you can make it.”

 

Turning to him, Rávener felt daring to ask something of Halanor, after all the help he had given. “Will you look out for the others? Itilano is a good leader but my brother can be stubborn…”

 

“Do not fear, I shall keep them safe,” Halanor promised. “I wish you did not have to go, nevertheless.”

 

Rávener straightened up, knowing the others in good hands was a relief, and he would have to hurry and press on hard if he wanted to find Larcanor. “I hope we will meet again, one day, Halanor.” He said as a goodbye.

 

Strangely Halanor smiled. “I am sure we will.”

 

TRB

 

“Look ahead, it is them, it must be.” Larcanor turned around to look at Rávener who had helped Silene and Tingilya across the rocks. During their march through the thick forest land he had lost his count how often the Archer’s Star had risen and fallen. When he had found Larcanor their need had been dire but now, they finally were catching up on the others. He wondered if Itilano was already with them again.

 

If he looked ahead the woodland receded to an open land of hills and he could see other elves, many of them wander further west. Rávener was relieved to see them, after having erred in the wilds for so long, it was good to know that not all of their brethren had vanished into the wilderness. Helping those weakest in their group they made their way across the open hills and towards the other elves – there were many of them, he saw, very many. Only when they finally reached the group and were approached by a tall Elf Rávener realized that they had found Finwë and his wanderers again. “Rávener,” Finwë greeted him warmly, “we had long feared to have lost you and your comrades, for Turayne could say little of your fate.”

 

Rávener bowed swiftly, for Finwë had been their leader in these wanderings and he respected him highly. “It was a long path erring through the wilds to find them, but now we have returned. Has Itilano led the others here already?”

 

“We have not heard a word from him since he fell behind along with your brother,” Finwë said, “your brother though reached us, along with two others – his tale I have yet to hear, and he will not speak of you.”

 

“With Turayne and Larcanor here now, I better went back and found Itilano,” Rávener was tired, the exhaustion settling even more on him as he thought of the long path he would have to trudge back North.

 

“No,” Finwë said and his voice grew gentler. “I was warned to not allow any of ours to return North, Rávener, for a battle is waged there and it is not for us to see it. I am sure Itilano will find us on his own. You have done much to aid our brethren so far, now you too are in need of rest.”

 

Rávener did not like the idea of leaving Itilano behind, but he accepted Finwë’s ruling in this matter. “So we will continue on?” he asked, form the heights were they were now standing they could see wide lands stretch west and the far beyond the great sea.

 

“We will, though I need to ask something of you first,” Finwë’s eyes touched upon the bow on Rávener’s shoulder. Like Turayne he had made one after encountering the first strange creatures in the wild, having seen a similar hunting weapon with them. “I will have to ask you to leave that,” Finwë pointed to the bow, “behind. There is no need of such things on our journey onwards, and we shall not carry the tools of the evil beings we met to the seas.”

 

Rávener was about to argue, the bow had proven useful in many a situation and Halanor had shown him some tricks to make it even better, but… Finwë was leading them and he would not easily turn against his judgment. “If it is your wish,” he said, feeling a little betrayed that all the thanks he was getting for having chased after wayward groups and guiding them safely back, was another order. “I will leave it back under the trees from whence it came.”

 

“You could as easily burn it tonight,” Finwë pointed out, “Turayne did when I advised him thus.”

 

Turayne was a good elf, and sometimes too easy in doing as he was told, or so Rávener thought, except when it came to the wild things. He would easily depart from whatever possessions he had but he would not so easily parted from any of the strange creatures he befriended at times. “I am not him,” he told Finwë, “and my friend’s choice is not mine. This bow was made by my hands and I will not have it burned like it was common wood. If you demand I leave it behind, I leave it after my own choosing.”

 

With that he turned around and went back to the next hilltop, where he placed bow and arrows between the roots of a gnarled tree. He felt a little bad that he had spoken harshly to Finwë, but he also felt a little betrayed that such a small thing should earn him the reprimand of his leader. Touching the curved wood of the bow for a last time, he rose and went back to the others. It still was a long way towards the great sea. In his heart he wondered where Itilano and the others were, but he hoped they would be safe with Halanor.


	2. Darkness unchained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As my friends convinced me, I will work with the Quenya names for the characters for now. As most of our Noldorin heroes have an assortment of those, I made a list with the one I will actively use most of the time. I will also add the Quenya names for Sindarin named OC’s you may have encountered in the Saga before. (I DID mention somewhere that Aelin’s name was Aralaimé, but I think it would be fair to mention it somewhere.) Here is the list that is in use for now:
> 
> Name List
> 
> Sindarin Name Quenya Name
> 
> Maedhros Maitimo  
> Maglor Makalaurë  
> Celegorm Tyelkormo  
> Caranthir Carnistir  
> Curufin Atarincë   
> Amrod Ambarussa  
> Amras Umbarto/Telvo  
> Fingolfin Aracáno  
> Finarfin Ingoldo   
> Fingon Findekáno  
> Turgon Turukáno  
> Aredhel Írissë  
> Argon Arakáno  
> Finrod Findaráto  
> Angrod Angaráto  
> Aegnor Aikanáro  
> Galadriel Nerwen
> 
> Aelin Aralaimé

Year of the Trees 1400, City of Tirion

 

The unrest was like a whisper in the white marble hall. Sometimes it seemed so strong that the pillars themselves – each carved in the shape of a different tree – could echo it. As he stood under the pillar shaped like the Summer-Asp in flower, Finwë could not deny that gathering his family here was not going to be a quiet affair. His eldest son, Fëanor, stood with his wife Nerdanel, an island of calm in the crowd even as he kept a pointed distance from his half-brethren Aracáno and Ingoldo, and cast a sharp frown at the rest of the assembly, namely his own sons, and the children of his half-brothers, who stood together talking animatedly. Their laughter and whispers filled the halls with an almost unseemly unrest.

 

Finwë gave his eldest son a warm smile. Fëanor was sterner than most of the family and his disapproving glare at his son Maitimo and his nephew Findekáno spoke for itself. Both elves were laughing together about something Maitimo had just said. Their sight often gave Finwë hope, because while he had all but lost hope to ever mend the rift between his sons, his grandchildren might heal what never should have been a wound. As he stepped closer to them Finwë’s presence brought quiet to the assembly. When he spoke he addressed his sons, as the elders in their respective families.

 

“We have been called to Valmar, where a great judgment is to be held and we were called to appear in number and strongly united.” He announced what a messenger had told him only a day ago. “Aracáno, I need you to go to the city and call upon Siltir, Alanoro…” Finwë continued with the names of those he would prefer to be present. “Make sure they know all they need to know and that there is to be no argument and no tensions amongst us when we come to Valmar.”

 

“I shall see to it, father.” Aracáno understood without words why he was asked to do so. He often had balanced the moments of argument in the city and was highly respected for it. “Do you wish me to call upon Turayne as well?” He was another leader amongst the Noldor that he assumed his father would wish to see in Valmar.

 

Soft laughter erupted behind him. “That would depend on from which tree you will have to shake him.” Turukáno had spoken, his voice bright with mirth. “Or which cave he crawled into to find some beast.”

 

“He at least knows his way in the land, while you would get lost no half mile out of the city,” Tyelkormo interjected sharply. He crossed his arms in front of his chest as he glared at Turukáno. “And he returned only a few days ago, so he should be easily found close to the Falmari settlements, where he has made his home.”

 

Finwë raised his hand before an argument could break out. “Tyelkormo, if you could find him? I would be glad if he were to join us in Valmar.” He did reprimand neither of his grandsons for their words; both were true in their own way.

 

“Consider it done,” Tyelkormo replied with a small nod in Finwë’s direction.

 

“Good.” Finwë knew this was the best choice. Turayne had brought a love for the untamed things and the wilds with him when they embarked from Arda. It was something that Tyelkormo could understand, though it made Turukáno’s words no less true. Turayne’s love for the wild things often distanced him from his Noldorin friends, and others whispered that they were the reason for his continued friendship with Rávaner, who bore his wild, untamed nature in his name.

 

Rávaner. The thought of him brought Finwë to the next topic. “Maitimo, I have a task for you too.” He turned to the eldest son of Fëanor, who together with Findekáno had quietly tried to stifle further squabbling amongst their respective siblings and kin. “I need you to go to Falquasinyë and speak to Aralaimé.”

 

An understanding smile lit up Maitimo’s face. “He should nudge his father to come to Valmar, I take it?” he asked. “I doubt that Rávaner would deny a summons from you, but I will do as you say.”

 

“He should not deny a summons from Finwë.” It was the first time that Indis had spoken up and her clear voice rang softly in the hall. “Though he is easily set on defying him.”

 

Finwë turned to his wife. “That is not true. He and others may have chosen to not settle in Tirion, but he has never openly defied me or questioned my leadership. Sometimes it is better not push an elf, when one can ask him politely as well.”

 

Indis shook her head, her long golden hair falling around her shoulders. “You know what I think of that, husband,” she said firmly. “And Rávaner… I do not like him. He withdraws too much from the company of our kind, choosing to keep himself apart in secrecy.”

 

“You have been listening to your friend Histelle again, and she is still carrying the same old tales.” It was unusual for Nerdanel to speak out so directly; she was easily the gentlest soul amongst those assembled here. “And now you are looking for new excuses to see bad where there is none. Not all elves wish to live in a city or close to their kin. Some love the loneliness.” She smiled warmly towards her husband at the last words; he too sought solitude when contemplating his works.

 

“Histelle is the wife of his brother and she would know what she speaks of.” Indis could not help speaking a tad bit sharper to the wife of her stepson. “And there were questions about what happened during their journey…”

 

“Indis,” Finwë spoke up, because he could see a storm coming. Fëanor might not be of the same opinion as his wife – though Finwë supposed he held some respect for a fellow crafter – but he would support her when she made a point so strongly. He never allowed anyone to cross her and he was fierce in his protection and support of her. It was not an argument Finwë wished to see erupt. “I did hear out his brother, Histelle and her friend Iliriel long ago, my dear.” He looked at his wife. “I heard their accusations against Rávaner, and I heard him too. I then sought the council of those wiser than I, and I still stand by my judgment that he did right. He acted upon what he knew and he trusted the others to follow him when he set out to find Larcanor. He did neither lead them into a trap nor knowingly left them behind in danger. And after the case was heard and judged it should have been put to rest, not being talked about to this very day.”

 

“Small wonder Rávaner prefers to stay away from this city.” Maitimo’s voice had taken a harsh edge when he spoke. “When those who dwell inside it will ignore the justice their King gave.”

 

And there was it, the strife they were told to not bring to Valmar, the reason why they had to be told to present a united front for whatever judgment was to be heard. For a moment Finwë contemplated simply not asking Rávaner to come; neither he nor any of those who made their home in Falquasinyë would especially care if they had been excluded from the call. For all his being a sometimes difficult elf, Finwë knew Rávaner to be loyal and to not care about such a perceived slight. No, he concluded. If he did not call upon Rávaner, the whisperers here in Tirion would conclude that there was a disfavor upon Rávaner’s shoulders and the chatter would never end. It was lucky that Maitimo had befriended Rávaner’s son Aralaimé and that Fëanor was wise enough to not listen to the same whispers.

 

He raised his hand, forestalling words on all sides. “Maitimo, I entrust this to you and I hope to see you in Valmar soon.” Having Maitimo accompany them would demonstrate unity, at least a little. He felt the glances of his wife and sons and knew the debate may not yet be over.

 

TRB

 

Falquasinyë, the pass of dawn, lay not all that far from Tirion to the southwest, where the Pelori Mountains cut deeper into the land. Like so often when he approached the settlement of those who had made their home on the steep slopes Maitimo wondered why they had never named their new home and simply identified it by the name of the pass it was situated on. It felt strange to him. He could not say why, but it gave the place a strange, almost secretive aura, though there was nothing hidden about the settlement itself.

 

Maitimo approached the hall and met Aralaimé outside, his friend leaving aside the work he had been doing to greet him. “Maitimo, I certainly had not expected to see you today.” Aralaimé, who was of about the same age as Maitimo, took after his father in looks, with the wild dark hair and fierce blue eyes.

 

“I wish I could say that I just happened to find the time,” Maitimo laughed as they walked through the archway into the main yard of the house. He always felt welcome here or maybe he simply felt at home because Rávaner’s house, much like his father’s home, was a crafter’s house. There was something strong about the place, something that showed that the hands in this home were rarely idle. It lacked the tranquility of other elven homes and Maitimo found that homelike. “But I was sent here by Finwë…”

 

Rávaner had come out of the main workshop; he had heard the last words. “If your esteemed grandfather sends you here, something is afoot,” he observed. “And I sure hope it is not another jeweler’s argument at the city. Your father put an end to the last one so nicely that I hoped they’d learn to not argue where he can hear.”

 

Maitimo stifled a smile. The argument had certainly lasted for weeks and Light of the Trees, it had taken his father in a full-blown fit of temper to calm the quarrel in the end. “No, though they only learned to squabble less loudly, I think. We have been called to Valmar, to witness a great judgment, and it is wished of us that we appear in number and united… My grandfather would wish you there, Rávaner.”

 

He saw the curt nod of the older elf, but there was a slight shift in his posture. “If the High King wishes it, I shall be there. But what has happened that there is a judgment to be made in Valmar itself?” Maitimo could see a tension settle on the other elf, like a wild cat readying itself to jump. “Is it not another Vanyar thinking that they can question the High King?”

 

Maitimo shook his head, grateful he could deny that question straight away. Rávaner might not be easy to be around sometimes, but he was loyal and he took a dislike to strangers questioning the High King’s rule, even if they were Vanyar. “No, it is not, nor were we told what kind of judgment it is. Not even my grandfather knows, Rávaner. But we were called and as such we follow.”

 

The tension bled out of Rávaner’s stance as he relaxed. “Of course. You are right, Maitimo. I shall be with you shortly to accompany you to Valmar.”

 

TRB

 

Rávaner bowed politely to Finwë as they stood on the wide square that surrounded the heart of Valmar itself. In the golden light of Laurelin, the roofs and walls of the city shone softly golden. Here, in the very heart of Valinor itself, the elves were guests amongst the Lords of Valinor. At this moment Rávaner’s attention was on the High King though, for it was upon his summons he had come here. He had seen Maitimo drag Aralaimé off to meet with Findekáno. He had said nothing, but sometimes their friendship worried him.

 

“Rávaner, I am glad you came,” Finwë greeted him. His eyes fell upon the stairs a few steps away, where Maitimo stood with Findekáno and Aralaimé. “And you brought your son, good. Your wife did not accompany you?”

 

“She was not at our home when the call came, my Lord,” Rávaner answered steadily, surprised by the interest in his family. “Alacis’ service to Lady Yavanna leaves her little time to be at our home and there was no time to send word to her.”

 

It was something Finwë found hard to understand. When Míriel had faded away and finally left him, he had been lonely, bereft and deeply hurt. Seeing another elf choosing such separation willingly in life, walking on distant paths from his spouse, seemed strange to him, but then again, Rávaner had never much sought company. “I am sure if it was wished she was here, she would have been sent,” he replied, turning to Tyelkormo, who arrived with Turayne. They were the last to come here.

 

Rávaner chose his place amongst the elves without much thinking about it. Their place was to sit at the stairs that led up to Manwë’s throne, and the less he thought about that, the better. He kept a little distance from the others as he sat down, but not so much that it would indicate dissent. Luckily there was room enough, and he waited for what was supposed to happen here.

 

When Manwë commanded that Melkor be brought forth, a soft whisper went through the assembled elves, for they all had heard of the dark Valar and his ill deeds and of the great war the Valar had waged upon him. Rávaner listened up, his attention suddenly awoken. He had sometimes wondered if this was the war that had raged in North of Dark Arda during the days of their wanderings and to this day he wondered what fate might have befallen Itilano and his friends. Had they fallen prey to the fighting? Had they lost their path anew? Or had they chosen to not continue on for reasons he did not know? Had Halanor protected them? No, that was not in question. He was sure Halanor had kept his word.

 

A movement at the end of the square made him look up. Four silent guards escorted the prisoner. Even from the distance it was easy to see he was tall as all the Valar were, though heavy chains bowed his figure. Rávaner frowned; why would they bring him in chains? Even a prisoner or an accused facing judgment should not be tied up. Any man should stand freely before his judge. How else could he recognize the judge’s authority? A prisoner dragged in chains was only forced under the judge’s authority, so how should he abide by the judgment passed?

 

But as he looked to the side, Rávaner could see that none of the other elves seemed surprised or unsettled, as he felt. The Noldor had their eyes on the captive as he was led closer and the Vanyar were only looking at the Valar, not that Rávaner had expected different from them; they would not know a question if it stood in front of them and slapped them in the face. His eyes went back to the captive as he was led closer. Halfway across the square he knelt, prostrating himself before the Throne of Manwë.

 

Again Rávaner could not deny that he was torn. This was a great enemy of the Lords of Valinor, he would not deny that, but… in chains any supplication was enforced, and such a gesture should only be given out of one’s own volition. He cast a side-glance to the other Noldor and he saw a few nod approvingly. The others simply watched, but suddenly he felt rather alone amongst them, alone with his thoughts, and with his doubts.

 

He exhaled slowly. It was not his place to judge this. He was here because the High King had commanded it, and that was all of his place in this spectacle. _Ours is not to question, but to obey_ , he tried to remind himself as his eyes went back to the prisoner, who had been allowed to rise and come closer. When the prisoner was twelve steps from the stairs he knelt again, this time to receive judgment. Now that he was closer, Rávaner could see him more clearly. The powerful figure was bowed by the heavy chains, his complexion was pale and the eyes were haunted from whatever he might have experienced in the prison that held him.

 

Rávaner felt his throat tighten when the captive looked up and his glance from under the long hair seemed to cut right across the square to meet his gaze. Halanor… It was him, there was no doubt. He had never forgotten the face of the one who had saved them from the ravine. How… how in the world? His heart suddenly beat against his chest like it wanted to break his ribs. How could Halanor be the same vile enemy that they had been told Melkor was? Had Itilano and his friends not vanished, but been killed in the fighting? Killed by whom?

 

The question pushed so strongly into Rávaner’s mind that he almost voice it loud. He balled his hands into fists, nails digging deep into his palms to prevent any word from coming out. Could he doubt? Did he dare to? Did he even know enough to judge what was truth here? Still, he did not avert his eyes from Halanor’s gaze. It was only for one second that their eyes met, but it was enough.

 

Like through a haze he saw the proceedings. Melkor prostrated himself again, but it took a while ere any words of what was spoken echoed through to him. The plea for forgiveness was one that cut through the heart and Rávaner was sure that no being in this square, be it Valar, Maiar or Eldar, could be unmoved by the words. Maybe… maybe the Halanor he had met had been another side of Melkor? A better side? No, he should not presume so much, he chastised himself. It was certainly not up to him to claim to know the mind or soul of one of the Valar, even their darkest one.

 

Manwë’s judgment was wise and Rávaner felt relief when he heard the words of forgiveness, of a punishment dealt and the past now behind them. He had known Manwë was wise, but _seeing_ such a wise judgment was good. It eased his spirit, even though he could see many of the Eldar and Maiar assembled here did not see it the same way. Melkor was unchained and led away to a humble home outside the city walls, where he was commanded to dwell from now on. Maybe, Rávaner thought, he might one day learn what had become of Itilano. He could ask. Inwardly he shook his head; going to one of the Valar and demand answers was unseemly to say the least.

 

Around him the Elves had perceived that they were dismissed and they rose. Slowly Rávaner got up too, ready to leave quietly, but Finwë held him back. “I saw this affected you greatly.” The High King’s eyes were concerned as he led Rávaner away from the others. “And that gives me worry.”

 

Rávaner shook his head. “It is nothing, my Lord,” he replied, trying to smooth over his obvious reaction to the events. “I doubt any of us can stand long in the shadow of Valmar and not feel overwhelmed.”

 

Finwë’s gaze met his and the keen eyes said that he did not believe the platitude at all. “Rávaner, of all of our kind you alone dared some of the worst wilds of Arda’s North, searching for our people who had strayed. You must have come close to the lands we were warned against, at least twice. The first time was when we missed Nelatirán and then again when your brother went missing. I still shudder to think what you might have witnessed alone.”

 

“If this is about my brother again…” Rávaner had not spoken to his brother ever since he first had made his accusations known before Finwë’s throne and he did not intend to ever acknowledge Ornamo’s existence beyond the absolute necessary.

 

“No,” Finwë cut off his words. “This is not about Ornamo at all. Rávaner, you never shared with anyone all that had happened to you on those searches and to this day I never asked, assuming that your journeys were not much different from what we all saw on the long road to the sea. But now I am beginning to wonder if you were not faced with different dangers.”

 

Rávaner straightened up, pushing his doubts into the back of his mind. “There is nothing, my Lord. I was faced with nothing that others did not live through all well, you were right in that. I just… I just need some time to think, alone.”

 

A small smile shone on Finwë’s face. “My son often tells me the same. Tell me, Rávaner, is it a trait of all crafters that they seek the loneliness of their own minds?”

 

“Most of us don’t, my Lord.” Rávaner was relieved that Finwë’s own words allowed him to steer the conversation towards a less dangerous topic, and speaking of his eldest son was something that could distract Finwë. “Most crafters need the thoughts of others, the discussions and critique. An idea needs to touch another mind to live, every thought needs another soul to echo in. Your son is a rare individual not to need any of this; he is a world unto itself.” He could see how Finwë relaxed a little, and from there their conversation turned to Fëanor, Maitimo and other topics as they left Valmar. Deep in Rávaner’s mind nothing of what had transpired was forgotten, but he had yet to find time to think it through.

 

TRB

 

5th Onyx-Serpent Year (621 of the Silver Calendar), The City of the Deeps

 

Azár had never been so glad to reach the bridges again. He took cover behind a rock and loaded his crossbow, eyes trained on the tunnel behind them as his troop filed past him and onto the bridge. Beside him Falún had squatted down, snapping his very last bolts into his crossbow. “I think we’ve lost them,” the black haired dwarrow grumbled. “Over by Tarnis’ Crossing they turned tail. This must be as strange grounds for them as their cave was for us.”

 

“Better careful than slaughtered,” Azár replied, still watching the dark tunnel. “Do you remember that stonewyrm the people at Firstsilver Deep dug up last year? They underestimated the beast and were nearly eaten.” Azár rested his hand against the rock before him and let his mind slowly touch the deep stone. Down here the Deep Stone was everywhere, Arda’s living bones stretching all around them. It felt so different from his mother’s homeland, where the wind and the cold whispered on the ice. The Deep Stone always would feel a tad oppressive to him, even though his father was of the Deep, but he was sure that they were truly alone.

 

“I think you are right, Falún,” he agreed with his comrade. “We march back to the city. The King will want to hear what happened.” He rose, shouldering his crossbow, but kept his axe close at hand as they walked on.

 

“Your father will hear you,” Falún said confidently. Like most dwarrow Azár knew he was a pragmatist and never shied away from the topic that Azár’s father was no one but the High King, Durin I, though to this day no one had ever seen or heard of Azár’s mother, which was to say that he was of slightly unorthodox birth, to put it mildly. “And he will know how to deal with this new problem. He always knows what to do.”

 

Azár looked down, averting his eyes from his friend’s gaze. There was an unshakeable trust in Falún, trust of a kind that he often found amazing. “I hope so, Falún,” he replied. “For we will need troops to clean out that place, bottle any new incursion up and we need to make some forays into that den to assess how many more of these creatures can jump us.” His eyes gazed ahead to the place in the column where Khari walked, who carried the sack with the heads and bodies they had taken to bring back. Any new creature of the deeps needed to be studied and the scholars wanted at least one dead specimen to examine and put into the bestiary.

 

The bridges were the only way to cross the deep chasms that sundered the deep. The huge chunks of rocks in between had been named ‘shards’ by the dwarrow and housed a number of outskirts of the city. But the true city, the dwelling of the dwarrow, lay on the greatest shard of them all. In the middle of a chasm so deep and wide that the naked eye could not see the ground, nor the other side, hovered one mighty chunk of rock. There were dwarrow scholars who claimed to understand why those rocks would not fall, why they hung in the air like held by an invisible hand, but Azár believed that it was the will of Mahal himself that had created those wonders of the deeps. A river sprung from the great shard, its water rushing over the edge as it vanished into the deep as a mighty waterfall.

 

The city itself was built in the shape of a seven-spoked wheel, seven roads stretching from the palace and the heart of the city towards seven bridges leading out into the darkness. The seven parts of the city belonged each to one of the tribes of the dwarrow, built according to their wishes and entirely different from each other, though still united in the love and craftsmanship that had gone into the work. The heart of the city was of all nations, and above it rose the fortress of the High King.

 

Today Azár had no eye for the beauty of the city, nor did he remember the day he had first come here. His mother’s people were the only ones who had not taken to living in the deeps, though they too had sworn to the High King and regularly sent troops and workers here. But even with those, Azár most of the time stood out amongst other dwarrow, because of the golden hair he had inherited from his mother. “Falún, see that the troop sees a healer and rest after. I will go and see my father.”

The fortress of the High King was a maze to those who did not know how to navigate the halls, or to read the writings on the walls, writings that took the shape of endless patterns or endless knots, but in truth were words, entire sentences strung into a pattern of never-ending lines. The greatest crafters of such patterns could create such intricate weavings that they would hold entire tales, and some families kept their family tree like that. Almost without thinking Azár touched his right wrist, where he wore such a tattoo, signifying his family.

 

“When you come striding into this place, blood still on your armor, you had a hard fight and did not win,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind him.

 

Azár turned around and found himself face to face with his father, Durin, whom some had taken to calling the Deathless, for surviving some of the most harebrained risks any dwarrow of living memory had ever taken. Taller than Azár himself, he stood at slightly above five foot and he had broad shoulders framed by long dark hair and blue eyes shining brightly as they assessed him. Even as he wore armor, he wore a bright blue jewel on a silver band around his neck. The stone was legend and Azár was never sure if he believed the story how his father had come by it.

 

“The good news is we did not lose, but the bad tidings is we did not win either,” he replied. “Janguin and his people at Breakstone Junction broke down another wall to expand their caves and they were jumped by strange creatures when the wall collapsed. There were many of them, grey-skinned and ugly. They fight with crude weapons, including teeth and nails, and I have yet to see other creatures scale walls like that. There was an entire set of caves full of them, but we were too quickly pushed back to say for sure.” Azár hesitated for a moment before he went on. “We bottled them up at Stonefire hold and they gave up chase soon after, except for some. It was as if there was no real structure to their doings. We lost the last of them before we reached the bridges.”

 

Durin frowned deeply, thick dark eyebrows furrowing. “These are ill tidings indeed, Azár. Can you describe those creatures to me?” He led Azár towards his study, pointing to the fire.

 

Azár understood without too many words and fished a piece of charcoal from the fireplace, while his father handed him a white stone tablet. Swiftly Azár began to draw the beings they had encountered, portraying their faces and their entire forms in six different drawings. “We brought bodies back for the scholars of course…” He looked up and his voice trailed off, because Durin’s face had become pale and he steadied himself with his hand against the wall.

 

“You know these creatures, father?” Azár rarely used that term; it was too assumptive, especially for an illegitimate child, but in a moment like this it signified support and the strong bonds of family.

 

“It has been a long time.” Durin sat down heavily on a chair, shaking his head. “It happened while I was still searching for our brethren that I happened upon them high in the North. They were many and they hunted me. It was then that I was saved by…” His hand went to the blue stone. “I do not know who he was or of what people, I only know he was swift as a bird in the skies and had the beauty of the stars themselves. He killed those who hunted me and healed me. But when I awoke, I was alone.”

 

“North, that fits; Breakstone Junction is in the Northern reaches,” Azár mused. “Maybe that is whence they come. Allow me to take a few hundred fighters back and we will see what answers we can find. Though, might I suggest we keep Stonefire Hold as a secondary line of defense? Just to be sure.”

 

Durin looked at him, then reached for his shoulder. “Mahal give you never lose your thirst for action, son. I will have Alric report to you soon. You will of course want Falún along as well, I take it?”

 

“Falún is a friend and I’ll always be glad to know he has my back,” Azár said, rising. “And with this new danger I will be doubly grateful for his watchfulness.” With that they parted and Azár went to meet the warriors. It was time they found answers as to who was clawing towards their kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who took up correcting it the moment she was back and who is still patient with my odd spelling. It also comes with thanks to Tara6 who helped with the fact-checking in an Age I feel less comfortable to write in. You both are brilliant.
> 
> All mistakes in the Tolkien spelling are mine alone!
> 
> Regarding the calenders – while the events of the story are not that far removed from one another, I did see no reason why the dwarves should be aware of the Elven calendar and thus gave them their own. It is not meant to confuse you.


	3. To seek answers

The three blades of the tool were more reminiscent of three fine strands of hair embossed with the hardest crystal blades in existence. Touching them cut skin easily and even leather gloves offered no protection from the shark edges. The strands were so thin that they were flexible, like true hair, which made using this cutting tool so complicated. Fëanor had never named it, like he had not named many of the special tools he had created for his work. In his mind they all were ordered to a system that required no names, though he did contemplate to create special runic markers for them at some time.

 

In this very moment his mind was far from such a cataloguing system for tools that he felt were just the small aids he needed for his work. He held the cutting strands on both ends as guided them deftly over the half-finished object. The orb was still in the rough, uneven and unpolished, and covered in a sludge made from crushed chalkstone and other minerals intermixed with water. The mixture eased the process as the three blades cut away the uneven surface, slowly shaping a true orb out of the raw piece. Each new cut took focus and not only to maintain the perfect form of the sphere. Each new cut sank sparks of power into the crystal and one had to be careful with that at all times.

 

Deep in his work Fëanor’s mind was focused, anything outside his workshop forgotten as he allowed the small sparks to sink into the sphere. Some of these sparks would link the orb with the lesser stones already sitting on a shelf near the wall. These were the shallow sparks, that he hardly needed to think about, while the true sparks sank deeper into the crystal and bonded with the solid structure of the material. Crystal was such a perfect material for that; Fëanor loved it for its regular structure and the growth of the stone that was like a perfect piece of the most complex numbers, he could almost see the numbers to describe such a growth and to him they sang.

 

Another spark under the surface, guided by his mind alone, bound itself to the heart of the crystal. Fëanor could see the golden light grow along the structure of the orb imbuing power into the stone. He twisted the cutting tool anew, clearing away a few jagged edges on the surface, letting more sparks fall into the stone. It was straining, even though it were only sparks. Wielding that much power unaided drove sweat onto his forehead and let it run in beads down his neck. He hardly cared, forcing his hands to work in the same steady rhythm as his mind.

 

Hours passed; the silver light of Telperion faded and the light of Laurelin gained strength, but he kept working. The crystal slowly became a midnight blue orb under his hands, shining softly golden from the inside, singing to him in thousand echoes. Fëanor smiled, this was to be the master stone, the one that all others were subject to. Not one of the huge ones, that were resting in the basement and that one day might be placed in high Towers to see from afar, and not one of the much more splendid ones he had cut before, which might be presented in the highest household as objects of admiration. This stone, seemingly so simple and yet so beautiful, was the true master stone, the stone from which nothing would remain hidden.

 

Fëanor set aside the tools and took a leather cloth to clean away the remaining sludge. The orb emerged from the water shining and clear, the golden light inside almost alive, seemingly moving and twisting, like a candle trapped deep inside the crystal. He sat down on the three-legged stool beside the bench and placed the orb into the holder he had created for it. Simple like the orb itself, the holder was made from shining silver, in the shape of a twisting vine. While he was exhausted, Fëanor smiled satisfied; this was the final piece to this work and he was satisfied with the outcome.

 

Only now he became aware of his surroundings again, of the room, the workshop and the yard outside, also of the elf that was sitting on the stairs by the door and had watched him. “You can come in, Maitimo, you are not going to break my focus,” he called his eldest son to come in. When his son had been born, Fëanor had named him Nelyafinwë, in tradition of his family, but Nerdanel had only looked at her son and found a much better name for him, and except on very formal occasions, he preferred to use that name.

 

Maitimo came closer, his eyes alight with curiosity. “This is the last of the seeing stones?” he asked softly. “You worked long on this one.”

 

“And you watched most of the time.” Fëanor knew that Maitimo often used the chance to watch and learn, be it here or with others. “Though you will not find your own perfection in working crystal until you begin to shape them for yourself.”

 

“Wasn’t that what you and Rávaner were debating last New Year, to an extent that all the other guests at the feast left you politely alone?” Maitimo asked, eyes sparkling with laughter. “I daresay no one quite understood what you were debating.”

 

“Shaping crystal,” Fëanor replied. “I believe that to wake true power in a crystal you have to bring the power from outside and embed it into the stone. He on the other hand believes that the power is already in the stone and must be freed and shaped by the cutting process. He is still pursuing that theory, I think, and I am curious to see what he will make of it. But something else must have brought you here or you would have sneaked away before I could call you.”

 

“Unfortunately I was not just here for the joy of watching you work, father.” Maitimo sat down as well, his face becoming very serious. “There is new unrest amongst the crafters of the city and it is growing out of proportion.”

 

Fëanor straightened up and turned his full attention to his son. “And what is it this time? Did Talanvor claim that elves should only work with green stones again?”

 

“I wish,” Maitimo replied, shaking his head. In the golden light shimmering through the windows his auburn hair took on an almost fiery tinge. “This is much more serious, father. Some of the crafters, amongst them Talanvor, Lustamo and Náhanér, have recently sought council and aid with their works in Valmar with… Melkor.” Maitimo’s voice tensed at the name; he was not sure what to think of the dark Vala who dwelled at the gates of Valmar. “They all received help and learned much from him, it seems. They speak highly of his knowledge and skills, though Talanvor indicated that he sometimes feels that it are only droplets of much more knowledge he received.”

 

“Let me guess, Rondamo and some of his family will have taken issue with that. Or did it come from the Vanyar directly?” Fëanor asked. He knew the crafters and their arguments, the small rivalries. And whenever the Vanyar became involved, things got tense. While the Noldor sought to learn, and sometimes even outgrew their erstwhile mentors, the Vanyar found striving for a perfection highly disquieting. Therefore they were of the opinion that the Noldor needed more humility.

 

“Both,” Maitimo sighed. “I would have asked Vaniser to mediate the conflict, but he was amongst those who went to seek Melkor’s knowledge.”

 

“Which does not surprise me,” Fëanor scoffed, shaking his head. “Did you ask Rávaner to talk some sense into them? I doubt that he was as… mellow… to seek Melkor’s knowledge on his own?”

 

“You disapprove too?” Maitimo titled his head. Until now he had been here to find a way to prevent strife becoming open enmity. “It was not forbidden to ask him.”

 

“It is not forbidden and it is certainly not punishable.” Fëanor rose, his temper needing the outlet. “But it is wrong. There is a reason that those who taught us never taught us all they know. What is there to strife for if you know everything already? They gave us the tools, the basics and showed us where to search. I prefer to find my own answers, to unravel my own secrets rather than being taught the answers by someone… least of all someone I do not trust.” He stopped his pacing and turned to his son. “Did you get Rávaner’s word on this? They might not like him, but he is one of the foremost crafters of this land and they will listen to him.”

 

“No,” Maitimo said. “He has withdrawn somewhere, to think something through, that much Aralaimé could tell me. He might have some project to work on or some mystery to unravel of his own. With him gone and Vaniser already having taken a side, it had to be you.”

 

There was no way to contradict this logic, much as Fëanor disliked his work disturbed. “Have them all assemble in the hall of crafters at the ninth hour, Maitimo, and I will put an end to their petty arguing.” His son rose and left to do what he had been told. Fëanor went back to the bench where the last of the Palantíri was resting. The spheres had taken wonderfully to the power stored inside. But what if… what if something much stronger was placed inside, something so powerful it should break any common crystal? How could a crystal be shaped to contain powers in such a way that they did reinforce the structure, not break it? His mind was already going over his new designs, as Fëanor took the pen to scribble down hasty notes on the ideas dancing in his mind.

 

TRB

 

Breakstone Junction was not a good sight to behold. Azár had known what to expect when they returned here, but still the sight of the many bodies on the ground – dwarrow corpses and corpses of the creatures they had slain – made the hair in his neck stand up. He had seen death before, because the deeps were a dangerous land to live in; stonewyrms had destroyed entire holds, cave-ins could smash the miners as they worked and mine gas explosions had torn entire tunnels apart before, not to speak of the surface with its creatures roaming the darkness, but even in that horrible collapse of Colddeep Mine had he seen death with such a gruesome face. The bodies on the ground were not just destroyed, they were hewn apart. Some were gnawed on, others torn apart after they had been killed. There was no peace in their rest, no respect for those who had departed.

 

“What kind of monsters do gnaw on their own dead?” Alric asked, his deep voice rough. He had examined the bodies. The broad-shouldered dwarrow with the nut-brown hair was of Thelór’s folk, hailing from the far-off Orocani, and he was as hard and unforgiving as the fiery mountains of his faraway homeland. But this sight had shaken him.

 

Azár lightly clasped his shoulder. “We are here to find out. They came through the breached wall over there and the caves behind were crawling with them. Have your fighters stay in groups of ten at the very least and keep crossbows ready. They did not have any shooting weapons the last time we came in here.”

 

Alric nodded, reverting again to the efficient troop leader he was, conveying the orders to his fighters. Falún, who had been squatting beside the broken wall, turned his head and looked up at Azár. “It’s silent in there: no movements, no noises, but… I can’t sense too deeply into the cave either, like the very stone inside does not speak.”

 

“I had that feeling when we first were inside,” Azár replied. He closed in on the gap and carefully peered through. “Though in the middle of the fighting I believed myself too distracted to properly listen. Now, it is high time we found our answers.” He moved past Falún and pulled himself over the barrier that still separated the caves, the first to venture into the unknown.

 

When they had come here before, the caves behind had been crawling with the strange creatures and they had found little time to look around. This time the cave was empty; a heavy silence rested on the cavern ahead of them. Azár craned his neck as he looked up to the ceiling, seeing the uneven bubble structure above. “Natural cave,” he said softly. “This was not excavated, but shaped into the stone through intrusion of hot gas or lava.”

 

Falún, who had followed him at once, shook his head. “That does not make sense, Azár. Gas and lava spread from below, but this is even, like it spread on the horizontal instead the vertical. We are nowhere deep enough for such an expansion.”

 

“Maybe it was a huge bubble rising and then spreading to the sides,” Azár replied. There were huge volcanos up North and their activity could have shaped these caves long ago. He took point and advanced further into the cavern. There were signs of inhabitation here and there – traces of ash and fires, bones lying around – but all of them were primitive; no one had tried to build real homes inside the cavern. They traversed the cave without any attack; there was not one trace of the creatures they had been fighting not all that long ago.

 

“Could they have retreated from this entrance?” Falún asked in a hush as they approached the other end of the cavern. He had followed Azár, the heavy axe in hand, ready to strike at first sign of trouble.

 

“Maybe.” Azár gestured him to move to the left. “There is another exit that leads out of the cavern. Let’s see what we find there.” He raised his hand, signaling Alric where they were moving and to leave some of his fighters to secure the hole.

 

The exit of the cave was almost regular; a hole of rectangular shape, hewn into the rock. Carefully Azár traced his fingers over the black stone. The workmanship was crude to say the least. The chisels must have been rough and no one had cared to even the surface after the breakthrough was made. But it was clearly artificial. “Careful now,” he said to Falún. “Someone expanded these caves, digging through the stone.” He tried to listen to the deep stone, to sense the familiar echoes of the deeps, but there was an unnatural silence that stretched ahead of him.

 

As they passed through the primitive hole they came out on a narrow ledge above a chasm. From the deeps rose several huge stone pillars, creating islands all across the chasm and they were connected by the strangest contraption Azár had ever seen. Bridges, although he hardly dared to use the word, made of ropes and wooden planks were swinging free between the pillars. “Are those supposed to be safe?” Falún asked critical. The very thought of walking on something that was not solid rock was distasteful to him and it echoed in his voice. “What are they made of?”

 

“Wood,” Azár replied, only then realizing that his Broadbeam friend had never been to the surface. “It is a surface material, made from huge trees that grow up there.” He approached the bridge, carefully examining the materials. The wood was dry and old, but the ropes were stable, if untended. The entire work was as crude as the doorway had been. “Whatever they are, their works are primitive,” he observed. “But they must go to the surface regularly; these ropes are not spun from stone-fibers or steel, they are made of plants and leather.”

 

The bridge was creaking under Azár’s steps as he walked over the wooden planks. Cold air from the chasm swiped past him and he had to force himself to stride out confidently. For he too felt the loss when he suddenly was parted from the stone under his feet, but he could not let the others see. Head held high and eyes trained on what was ahead he led his comrades across the bridges that spanned the chasm. Still he had to bite back a sigh of relief when he reached the other side, and had stone under his feet again, even if it was this strangely quiet stone of these caves. The ledge they stood on was again linked to a tunnel and on the other side they could see a light flicker, a fire most likely. He ducked lower and gestured the others to be silent, a curt gesture of his hand pointing the fire out to Alric. The tunnel was primitive, hewn into the rock without the slightest finesse. On the other side they stood again in a cavern, a huge natural cave that had been eaten into stone by hot gas or lava long ago.

 

In the middle a fire was burning and a whole pack of the same ugly creatures was sitting or crouching around the flames. They were roasting something on a spit. “No… they are… they are roasting one of our dead!” Alric’s voice shook. The warrior had been unable to hold back the words of horror when he saw the body that was on the spit, roasting slowly.

 

The noise had been enough to alert the creatures. Shrieks rose through the cavern, echoing eerily from the walls as the creatures leaped up and raced in their direction. “Back into the tunnel!” Azár snapped. There were too many of them, but they seemed to have no coordination, leaping wildly forward, and on the narrow entrance of the tunnel the dwarrow would have better chances to make their stand.

 

Standing in the tunnel entrance with Falún he shot the first of them with his crossbow, but he dropped the weapon when they came too close and took his axe to fight on with instead. These things fought like no other creature he had ever seen, with a savage ferocity unfettered by any tactics or thinking. Some leaped from above, some hurled themselves against them and many of them used primitive weapons made from stone and bone. Behind Azár and Falún, Alric and the others had reloaded the crossbows. By lying on the ground they could the lower angles to shoot more of these things, that seemed to totally rely on their numbers.

 

When it was over, the bodies of many creatures piled up at the entrance, their dark blood smeared the stone and their stench was hardly bearable. Azár advanced into their cave and looked around, expecting another attack. But silence had fallen again on the cavern. He gestured the others to follow and secure the place. Approaching the fire, Falún and he pulled the spit off the fire, only to confirm the gruesome truth Alric had seen right away: the form on the spit was a dwarrow, too badly singed to say whom of theirs he had been, but he had been roasted for eating and the only comfort Azár could find in his heart was that he must have been dead before being put on the fire.

 

His stomach clenched and he wanted to throw up. What kind of creature ate their opponents? As he felt the bile burn in his throat, he swallowed hard. He must not appear weak, because the others relied on him. “Search the cave in case they took captives,” he ordered, forcing himself to think of the most obvious thing to do.

 

Alric approached him. “I shouldn’t have shouted,” he said, looking chastised. “I gave us away. Had you not reacted so swiftly…”

 

Azár shook his head. “We all were shocked. You only saw it first. Who would not have screamed at the thought of what they were doing?” He still could not believe what they had found. Was there a word to express what these things were?

 

“No captives,” Falún reported. “And this too seems to only be a primitive camp of theirs. There are no signs of long-term habitation, no writings, no signs of any culture.”

 

“That might be because they do not require one.” The clear voice echoed through the cave, startling them all. To their left a wall had silently given way to another rough entrance, a wide entrance opening to a larger hall. In the gateway stood one figure, entirely different from the creatures they had seen before. Tall, standing at almost seven feet, clad in a strange armor made of black steel, fine chains and scales meshing into a form like Azár had never seen before. It was clinging to the slender, almost fragile form. The face was of finely chiseled proportions and framed by hair black as the night. Bright green eyes seemed to shine in the darkness. He had spoken in Khuzdul, though the words were strongly accented. “Nor do they require writing. What in the world should they write?”

 

Now Azár saw that behind this… person… were more of the creatures assembled, many of them, and those were larger and armored. “Who are you?” he snapped, gesturing the others to close ranks with him. “What do you want from us?”

 

The armored figure strode forward, almost gliding through the tunnel. He wore a weapon in his hand like none Azár had seen before. It was not an axe and not a spear, but it was a sharp blade, like a long knife, but too large and with two glistening edges. He had never seen a weapon like this before and he wondered why anyone would make such an impractical knife; it certainly could not be used as a tool for anything. The figure stopped a few steps away from them. “The question here is: who are you? And why have you invaded our halls?”

 

Azár felt his heart hammer in his chest like a drum. He had never felt such fear before. Still, his mind raced. Maybe they had truly come across another underground realm? Primitive it may be, but this one seemed someone that could be talked with. “My name is Azár of Icewind Reach,” he introduced himself. “My comrades are Falún of Blacksteel Deep and Alric of Greenrock Hold. We came across one of your caverns when a wall collapsed in Breakstone Junction and your friends attacked us without warning. Who are you?” He did not name the others of the troop, who had by now flanked them, closing ranks tightly.

 

“You would not be able to pronounce my full name, but you may call me Itál,” the stranger replied, “Tell me, Azár of Icewind Reach, have you never been warned, warned by those higher and better than you, that you should not dig too deeply? And that you should never dig towards the reaches of the North? A power rules here that is too high for you to comprehend.”

 

“Not that I would know of,” Azár replied, trying to keep this reasonable. This Itál certainly had no troubles being confident. “And now that we know where your borders are, we will leave you alone.”

 

Itál smiled, almost amusedly. “There is only one small problem with that. You brought yourselves to our attention, and you will have to pay the price for that.” He raised his blade and before Azár could react the sharp blade came about, beheading Alric. Azár saw the swirling silver arch in the air and pushed Falún out of the way before he too could fall. Itál advanced on them, a whirlwind of movement, faster than them. The silver blade was like a horrible swirl of light in the air. Lini fell and Norgan was beheaded. Othal came next, dying moments before his brother.

 

The weapon, Azár thought, was a tool after all; the perfect tool for killing, for slaughter. He saw Itál advance on Falún, who had landed on the ground from a kick and moved between Falún and the attacker. His axe caught the blade midair. Steel sang on steel, and he heard Itál laugh. “Finally someone with spirit and not just that cattle you brought with you.”

 

Azár broke his axe free and attacked, but his hit missed the target; Itál was moving too fast for him. Again their weapons clashed and he could hear the shriek in the steel handle of his axe. “Back to the tunnel!” he barked at the others, kicking Itál into the knees. His adversary stumbled backwards, only to come after him again a moment later.

 

It was the worst fight Azár had ever fought. His opponent was faster and stronger than him and that blade was a terrible weapon, perfectly suited to killing. By the time the last living dwarrow had reached the tunnel, Azár guessed they had lost at least a quarter of their troop. To only one man. His axe broke under another fierce attack and he rammed both of his fists into Itál’s belly. It hurt to hit the armor scales, but it made the fighter collapse for a moment, long enough for Azár to reach the tunnel too. When was through the narrow passage, he could see Itál standing again, both hands raised in a commanding gesture, sending his creatures forward once more. They had to retreat.

 

TRB

 

Rávaner stood on a hill outside Valmar, his steps halting again as he saw the city walls ahead of him and the house outside that was his destination. He had spent weeks in the wilds alone, to think, to somehow reason out what he could not understand. The lone thoughts had given him no peace, nor had they helped him to find the answers he sought. Ever since the judgment he had witnessed, his mind had been restless with too many things that were haunting him. In the end there was one thing he could not deny: whether he was permitted to question a Vala or not, it was his duty to try and find out what happened. It was a duty he could not put off or forget. He had accepted it long ago when he had first gone after those who had gotten lost in the dark wilds. No one had ever relieved him of that burden and he was still held responsible for those he had not found, or had failed to bring back.

 

Slowly he walked downhill and towards the humble house outside the city walls. There was a guard standing outside, an ethereal form of a Maiar, studying him calmly and not unfriendly. “What brings you here, Rávaner?” the guard asked when he was close enough.

 

Rávaner hid a frown, making himself not show any change in his features. What good was forgiveness if there was a guard still? Invisible chains instead chains of steel? “I wished to request a chance to speak with… Melkor. If he wishes to see me, that is. I come with a question.” He tried to phrase it politely, but one could not request an audience with an obvious captive and he certainly would not simply demand to speak to Halanor.

 

The guard did not seem put aback. “There is no reason why not,” he said. “Go on ahead. I shall announce you.” He pointed towards the house’s entrance before vanishing into the thin air.

 

Rávener had lived here long enough to not be unnerved by the sudden disappearance, but went on to the door, waiting politely until it opened. The guard already had reappeared outside, a small favor for which Rávaner was grateful. When the door swung open he tensed still. Halanor had changed a little; he looked less tired, he certainly had had some time to rest and there was a glimpse of the presence Rávaner had once felt, shining through the traces of captivity. “Rávaner.” Halanor’s voice was the same he remembered, deep and compelling.

 

He bowed, as was proper. Captive or not, he stood in front of one of the Valar, and there were forms that had to be obeyed. “Melkor, I thank you for the permission to speak to you.” It felt strange to call him by that name; in his mind the name Halanor was still strongly lodged.

 

He felt a gentle touch at his shoulder. “Oh, none of that, Rávaner,” Halanor stepped aside to allow him inside. “This is hardly a way to greet an old… friend?”

 

The greeting felt like almost nothing had transpired in between their meeting in the dark mountains and here, and maybe nothing in between truly mattered? “I would not wish to appear rude or presumptive towards one of your kind,” Rávaner replied, still feeling awkward, shy to presume too much.

 

“Is that what they thought you to be?” Melkor asked softly. “Bow and scrape, worship them just for existing?” The words were spoken so low that they might have been not meant for Rávaner to hear and he felt heat rise in cheeks, so he hastily averted his eyes. Before he could say something Halanor shook his head. “I will admit I was surprised to see you at my… judgment, and glad to know you made it back through the wilds. I often wondered what became of you. Did you find your friend? What was his name? Larcanor?”

 

“I did find him.” Rávaner followed when Halanor led him deeper into the house. It was a simple place, but that gave it the space to allow Halanor’s presence to unfold. They sat down by one of the windows. “He was in danger, you had been right, but we made it back to Finwë and the others. Though… apart from my brother and two others, no one ever heard of Itilano and those that were with him.”

 

Halanor frowned slightly. “Your brother did not tell you? Itilano gave him a message for you. Ornamo was loath to accept it… I hardly believed he was your brother. He made a point of being an unpleasant individual, but in the end he took the message and promised to deliver it.”

 

“There never was a message.” Rávaner knew this might be a trick, though something deep inside him told him there was truth in Halanor’s words. “The question why I left my comrades behind came up in later years.”

 

Halanor looked past Rávaner, a sadness shining in his eyes. “So you faced trial because you met me. It is sad you were punished for just crossing my path.”

 

“I was not punished.” Rávaner shook his head. “But I wonder to this day where Itilano and the others are. What became of them? They never came to the sea.”

 

“They chose to stay,” Halanor leaned his arm on the side of the window. “They were exhausted, tired of wandering the wilds. They did not have your strength. You seemed perfectly at home in the wide lone wilds, but for them the thought of again venturing out became a nightmare. I had brought them to a safe place, a place to hide from danger, and they chose to stay. I should hope they are still there, alive and well.”

 

Again Rávaner felt there was truth in Halanor’s words, though he knew he would check and find out. He would find his brother and demand some more answers. “Thank you, Halanor. This is all I could have hoped for,” he replied, not quite sure what to say.

 

Yet Halanor did not seem perturbed by his silence at all. “I understand you wondered. You felt very duty-bound to them back then, and you still are. It speaks for you. I hope I could at least give you some peace of mind.” His eyes focused on Rávaner. “Would you come back sometime? Just to talk? I would like to know what became of you in all those years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who took up correcting it the moment she was back and who is still patient with my odd spelling. It also comes with thanks to Tara6 who helped with the fact-checking in an Age I feel less comfortable to write in. You both are brilliant.
> 
> A note regarding Orcs: in “Raven’s Blade III” Thorin and Elrohir speculated on their origin and Elrohir admitted that even the elves were not sure if the Orcs had been created out of captive elves or not. And there were numerous mentions of the breeding pit all over the saga. I am aware that Tolkien changed his opinion on the Orc origin several times, and I chose to go my own way with them…


	4. Matters of Trust

The silver and golden light of the trees was softly intermingling when Rávaner reached the city. Tirion’s white walls shone in the light like they had been made from molten silver. The ninth late hour was rapidly passing; above one of the Towers of the city Rávaner could see the shining construct of sixteen silver rings, whirling around a golden orb, that signified the passage of time. It was one of Mahtar’s most ingenious designs and it was admired even by those who secretly strove to surpass him. To Rávaner it always signified the perfect combination of beauty and usefulness and it reminded him that he’d better hurry if he wanted to see this done today.

 

Ever since leaving Melkor’s house in Valmar he had contemplated his next steps, but eventually there was only one way he could go. If Melkor had lied, he needed to find that answer and if he had spoken the truth… he needed to know as well, and that meant no step would lead past Ornamo. With him sat the one answer that Rávaner needed and in a way he dreaded asking. Ornamo and he had never been on good terms since the journey and the gulf had widened even more upon Ornamo’s accusations in front of the High King. Most of these days Rávaner would scarcely acknowledge he had a brother, a fact that had driven his wife Alacis almost crazy. She had tried to resolve the issue, but in the end she had declared them a lost case.

 

He pushed any thoughts of Alacis aside; she had her path and she had nothing to do with these questions of the past. The streets of the city were quiet, though there was some commotion around the Hall of the Crafters. Rávaner’s way led past the hall, because Ornamo lived close by. He could not fail to notice the great number of elves assembled by the hall, many of them crafters, he knew, and they seemed deep in discussion. For a moment he considered joining them and finding out what the trouble was about. It had to be another argument that better got solved before it became a full-blown conflict.

 

No, he told himself, he would not put his errand off. He would not wait or delay to find the truth, no matter how much he might dread it. His heart sank when he spotted Ornamo amongst one of the groups. He was not much of a crafter in Rávaner’s eyes, but he had a loud voice in council. Rávaner straightened up and approached the group of arguing elves under the wide arches and high pillars of the hall.

 

“Rávaner, you could not have chosen a better time to appear,” a familiar voice greeted him. Fëanoro stood beside one of the pillars and had watched the arguing with an air of the deepest of impatience. “I would have wished to hear you too in this conflict.”

 

Rávaner bowed slightly, keeping to the rules of politeness. He respected Fëanoro, even while they often were of different opinions, and on top of that Fëanoro was the eldest son of the High King, a fact that some others liked to forget. “I only came here because I have an issue to discuss with Ornamo, but if my assistance is required, I will do what I can.”

 

“What would you want from me?” Ornamo had turned around, his eyes coolly surveying Rávaner. His words were all too easily cutting through Rávaner’s defenses, reminding him of other days.

 

“The message Itilano gave you for me, before you parted ways,” Rávaner said a bit more sharply. Inside him his heart hammered. He felt like it was so loud that the others had to hear it.

 

Ornamo’s eyes widened. “How do you know?” The words were out before he knew it, and he paled, stepping back from Rávaner.

 

“So it _is_ true?” Rávaner half wished it was not, he wished he could believe Melkor had lied to him, that his brother had not betrayed him like that. Being fooled by someone one had foolishly believed a friend was one thing, but being fooled by one’s own brother… it hurt worse than anything.

 

Fëanoro crossed his arms in front of his chest, casting a sharp glance at Ornamo. “You had a message from Itilano, but claimed otherwise?” His voice was sharp, commanding. It reminded everyone that this was the High King’s eldest son speaking. “You dared to come before my father with your simpering accusations while you sat on proof that you were lying?”

 

Ornamo had stepped further back until he hit a pillar. “Rávaner left us alone!” he snapped. “In the midst of the wilds and with a stranger we hardly knew. The others wanted to go with this Halanor. They would not listen to me! And Rávaner forsook us. He deserved to wonder what became of those he left behind.”

 

“I should have known.” Rávaner found his voice again. A part of him was hollow, like something that somehow still had held onto the belief in his brother had just been shattered. “I should have known that you would do such a thing. I do not know when I incurred your anger and I do not care, but you are not my brother any longer. You will give me that message and it is the last time I will speak to you.”

 

“You spoke to others, didn’t you?” Ornamo asked, his voice low and dangerous. “To what dark creature did you go for answers? You came from Valmar, did you not?”

 

Fëanoro’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Rávaner. “Truly, Rávaner, Melkor? How could you trust one word that the Dark One speaks? Why even seek him out?”

 

“As I cannot trust the word of my own brother, what does it matter to whom I turn?” Rávaner retorted, not evading Fëanoro’s gaze. “There were few who might have knowledge of what transpired so far North in Arda during that time… and he was one of them.” He chose to not reveal Halanor’s identity. Ornamo had not been in Valmar for judgment – he was too unimportant to having been asked there – and thus he did not know Melkor’s face yet, if he remembered it correctly anyway.

 

“I should rather be lied to by my own brother than going to that Dark One for answers.” Fëanoro’s voice had sunken deep; it conveyed a wealth of anger. “Nevertheless, Ornamo’s own words confirmed his duplicity and he shall procure the message he hid before we speak of the topic of Melkor further.” He turned around, his eyes blazing as he stared at Ornamo. “Go, hasten, you have wasted enough time as it is.”

 

Ornamo headed off, but the rest of the crafters had by now formed a circle around the debating elves and thus listened to all that had transpired. Rondamo, who had stood with two Vanyar, raised his hand, pointing at Rávaner. “You see, Fëanoro, this is the truth of what I said. Those who slunk to Melkor for answers and knowledge bring strife and malevolence into our ranks. It should be forbidden to seek such knowledge or consort with the likes of him.”

 

On another day Rávaner might have reacted more calmly, on another day he might have had humor left to react to Rondamo’s words. But today he had nothing left and the words all too clearly reminded him of the whispers that had followed him, even after Finwë had passed judgment on his case. “Nice, pious words, Rondamo,” he spoke up, squaring his shoulders. “Did you find them yourself or did you ask your Vanyar friends to write them for you?”

 

Erdiel, one of the Vanyar with Rondamo, shook his head. “It does not negate the truth of his words, Rávaner. The truth does not care from whence it originates.”

 

“If that is true, then it does not care that the truth about my… about Ornamo originated with Melkor.” Rávaner shot back, anger uncoiling inside him. He was tired of their talks, the pointed fingers and the whispers. “Tell me, Erdiel, do you believe yourself better than Manwë? Better than his judgment? Do you? Because that is what your words indicate. Melkor was judged by the Valar and we heard the judgment passed, we heard that he was forgiven. Do you deem yourself so wise that you know better than them?”

 

That shut the Vanyar up effectively. Rávaner almost enjoyed the shocked expression on the other elf’s face. He really had not thought about that yet, had he? “While it is not for us to question the wisdom of Manwë,” Fëanoro’s voice was stern, edgier than before, “and it is not for us to point fingers at one he forgave,” now there was definite loathing in his voice, “it _is_ for us to decide whether or not we wish to learn from such a one. I do not say that we are to forbidden from speaking to Melkor or that we should treat him ill should we meet him in the streets, but for those who seek his knowledge should be no room amongst us.”

 

Most of the time Rávaner did admire Fëanoro’s independent spirit, that he would seek answers on his own and rather found his own knowledge than just being taught. “Do you fear his knowledge so much, Fëanoro?” he asked. He saw the other elf shake his head sharply, so he went on. “No? Truly? Because I do. When I went to him for answers I was afraid of what I might learn and rightly so, because in the end had to find that the dark Vala had been truthful and my own… brother… had lied to me. What else might I learn there? I do not know, and maybe I should be afraid of it. But I refuse to cower to my fears and hide from what I might know in safe ignorance.”

 

He could see that his words had reached Fëanoro. While the son of Finwë might be proud and independent, he also disliked those who shied away from knowledge out of fear. “I shall never trust the Dark Vala, call upon his council, or seek his aid,” Fëanoro replied after a moment. “And as I see I cannot ask others to abide by my rules. I propose a new law to be written into our guild’s book. Those who wish to seek his aid or council may do so, but if they present a work that they had his help on, they will have to tell how much of what they created was due to his teachings.”

 

It made sense, Rávaner could see that. Fëanoro knew their guild well. “Why not make that a general law?” he asked. “If one of us seeks aid, assistance or knowledge with another to complete his work, he is to tell how much and whose help he engaged upon presentation. Thusly no one can present the work of another as his own.”

 

There were many nods of agreement amongst those assembled here. Some protested too, but that did not surprise Rávaner. In the middle of all this Ornamo returned, carrying a small schistose tablet with lines carved into it. He pushed it into Rávaner’s hands with a glance of disgust. “There, this is the last time I speak to you. I have no brother.” He turned and walked off. As he took the piece of stone Rávaner wished he were alone and had the time to decipher it, but this debate here was not over and he could not just turn and leave.

 

TRB

 

The walls of Stonefire Hold were what finally broke pursuit; the hold’s outer wall covered the entire breadth of her shard, with heavy battlements and bastions. Azár had never been so relieved to see one of their holds, not even on the retreat from the great stonewyrm five years earlier. While his tired and beaten troop found cover under the heavy gate and was let inside, the crossbows, ballistae and spear throwers from the walls cut swath into the ranks of the pursuing creatures. Their corpses littered the grounds or fell into the chasm.

 

When Azár arrived up on the wall to meet Brán of Stonefire Hold, he saw that the creatures had broken pursuit and no longer tried to cross the bridge that led to the shard the Hold was standing on. At the foot of the bridge stood Itál. What orders he gave them was not audible, but the bored way he used his sword to cut bolts out of the air or push spears away spoke for itself. “They will be digging in,” Brán said, pointing outward. “This does not look like they plan on leaving. Mahal’s mercy, Azár, what are those things?”

 

“I do not know,” Azár replied. “My troop began to call them rakásh, monsters. If they are digging in, we need to send word back and fortify the entire line: Falldeep Crossing, Coldwyrd Mine, all the way to Ironfist Hold.”

 

“Laddie, the runner to your father was dispatched the moment we spotted your retreat from the caves.” Brán leaned on his heavy hammer, huge fists closing around the head. The grey-haired dwarrow peered to Azár, his eyes not unfriendly. “It is not the first time we dug something nasty up and it won’t be the last either. The healers will see to your fighters, but I will need your boys until more troops can arrive here.”

 

Azár nodded in agreement. “The tall one, he seems to be their leader, though I do not know what he is. He fights with a weapon like I have never seen: one long blade to cut through his foes. He killed many…”

 

“Says something about him already,” Brán grumbled. “If he needs a special weapon to do his killing. Killing needs no skill, none at all. It is making things that takes skill. Anyone can kill if he has to, with whatever tool happens to be at hand. If this one makes a weapon for killing alone, I doubt he can do anything but kill and slaughter.”

 

It was the first belief of their people, something Mahal himself had taught them. He had bestowed his love for creating things upon them and taught them to never mistake killing for anything skillful or worthwhile. “I wish it was that easy.” Azár felt bad for even arguing the point. “But neither the armor he wore nor his weapon were crude, Brán. I fear he might be a foe who units skill and a love for killing.”

 

“That’s worrisome enough.” Brán again looked out to where the creatures were beginning to drag crude barriers and rocks towards the edge of the bridge, fortifying their side of the crossing. They were truly digging in.

 

Hour upon hour passed in silence. The troops exchanged watches and those who were not on watch sat down in the yard behind the wall to sleep. Azár too had finally accepted a rest, falling into an exhausted sleep, but he was haunted by dreams that had him still fight against Itál and this time he saw his entire troop slaughtered. The dreams broke when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. Startled he woke, only to find Brán had squatted down beside him. “I am sorry to wake you, laddie,” the older dwarrow said. “But something is wrong on the other side. Something is afoot.”

 

Azár grabbed his axe as he pushed himself to his feet to followed Brán up the wall. The creatures on the other side were hiding behind their new barrier and were not in sight, and silence lay on the cavern. Only after a moment Azár spotted the movements in the darkness on the bridge; several figures were limping across the stone arch spanning the chasm, walking towards the hold. They were not trying to hide and they were too compact to be some of the creatures, and their movements were too familiar. “Dwarrow,” Azár whispered. “Survivors. Maybe some of mine made it out… It’s got to be.”

 

He felt a heavy hand on his arm. Brán looked up at him and shook his head. “I doubt it, laddie. How did they get past the creatures, even if they were lucky enough to survive? Look there, one is all but crawling. No one in such a shape sneaks past a horde of monsters. Something is wrong here, very wrong.”

 

“Maybe, maybe not.” Azár knew that Brán spoke from a long life of experience in the deeps. He was a brave old dwarrow who had been amongst those who had originally founded Stonefire Hold. “But if these are my fighters, then I am responsible for what happened to them. And I have to try and get them back.”

 

Brán sighed. “I feared you would say that; your father said the very same many years ago, when it came to bringing back… Oh, forget all that. You are not going out alone.”

 

Together they headed down towards the gate and slipped outside. “The archers on the wall are ready,” Brán said. “In case we need them.”

 

Azár understood what the older dwarrow was saying. “You remain here, Brán,” he said firmly. “I go and meet them. If something is wrong, you know what to do.” It would mean they’d have to shoot him along with them and he would not lead Brán into such a slaughter. He had led too many already to their deaths.

 

Without waiting for confirmation Azár headed out. The grounds before the wall were without any cover and when he had almost reached the bridge, the first of the stumbling figures were nearly across. They were dwarrow beyond a doubt, but they were moving slowly, more limping and dragging themselves forward rather than walking. The first of them wore two axes on his back and  although his left shoulder seemed now higher than the right, Azár recognized him. “Dragán!” he whispered as he approached the wounded dwarrow.

 

“Azár?” Dragán’s voice was hoarse, scratchy. It sounded eerie in the darkness. “Should have known…” He limped on, leaving the bridge, coming to stand on the stone grounds of the shard.

 

“How many are with you?” Azár asked, surprised when Dragán backed away from him again. “How did you get past the creatures?”

 

“Past the Goblins? They are so stupid… was hungry though…” Dragán sounded almost mewling; the words were slurred and unclear.

 

Something cold seemed to brush past Azár and his hand sank to his belt. He pick his lightstone from the pouch there and dropped it to the ground. The white stone shone brightly, illuminating the entire scene. While all dwarrow could see very well in the darkness, their sight was limited to shapes and forms, and they could not see details clearly.

 

The sudden bright flare made Dragán raise his arms, shivering. “Hurt us…” he growled. His arms, once strong and well-muscled, were now twisted and short, the shoulders were set all wrong and his face too had twisted into a mask of horror.

 

“Dragán… what happened?” Azár tried to force his voice into a semblance of calm, to somehow cover the horror he felt at the sight of his comrade. “What did they do to you?”

 

“Hungry,” another voice mewled. The next dwarrow had reached the end of the bridge and Azár recognized the Arvid. His entire body twisted and his face was deformed. “Hungry…” He advanced towards Azár.

 

Azár raised his axe as he backed away a step. “Stay back, I do not want to hurt you.” he snapped. “Whatever happened to you…” He had no chance to finish the line, because the crouched figure behind the two jumped forward with a speed and strength that did not fit the twisted creature at all.

 

Azár raised the axe in reflex, like he would against a jumping stonewyrm. The dwarrow shrieked as his body was deeply cut by the steel blade. Dragán and Arvid too rushed forward, forcing Azár to defend himself. Their use of their own weapons was seemingly clumsy, but surprisingly swift still. He parried Arvid’s attack and sank his axe deeply into Dragán’s neck as he came about. A sick feeling rose inside Azár’s heart when he saw another dwarrow fall from his blade, the body slipping down.

 

Battle cries rose from behind him as Brán rushed out, followed by a handful of fighters to support Azár. The fighting was short and hard, but then the last of the mangled dwarrow lay dead on the stones. “Mahal’s Hammer, what happened to them?” Brán turned one of the bodies over with the handle of his hammer.

 

“I do not know.” Azár tried to sound strong, but his voice cracked. “I… I do not know.” He wanted to cry, to scream into the darkness of their caverns; everything inside him was raw. He had just killed some of his own comrades, dwarrow who had trusted him, who had followed him.

 

A hand reached for his arm; Falún had come up to him. “You could not have done a thing, Azár,” the warrior said firmly. “You tried to save them. We need to bring the bodies back to the scholars. Hopefully they will know what this is.”

 

“No.” Azár focused on Falún; the presence of his friend gave him strength. “The scholars will have to come out here to study this case. Until we know what happened to them, we will not bring any of them back to the city.” It would be like bringing Frostwyrm eggs into a well-defended hold; in the end it would always lead to slaughter. “And we will need to send warning to all the other holds. While we do not know what this is as of yet, they still need to be warned.”

 

TRB

 

The next day brought the expected reinforcements. Dwarrow warriors poured into Stonefire Hold, bringing additional ballistae, spear throwers and crossbowmen with them. In the middle of the frenzied activity Azár spotted one dwarrow that he knew he should have expected out here: Durin had come with the troops. The High King of the Dwarrow wore armor like all the warriors and if not for his tall stature and his looks, was not easily distinguished from any of his fighters.

 

“Azár,” he greeted his son with a nod. “Brán here is already telling me what transpired, but I came to see for myself. This Itál you spoke to, did he give any indication for his reasons to attack?”

 

“None, beyond that we brought us to his attention,” Azár replied. “And his creatures… I do not know what they are. The troop begins to call them rakásh, but Dragán last night said they were Goblins. Twisted though he was, he had come closer to them than we might like.”

 

Durin listened to all he had to say quietly. He always let people have their say, listening first and deciding after. “Show me the bodies,” he said, taking his axe in hand.

 

They went outside the walls and Azár led his father to the edge of the shard where they had placed the bodies in one row. In the light of their stones, the bodies looked even paler and more twisted than ever, leaving a churning feeling inside Azár. Durin squatted down beside them, examining them carefully. “I have never seen such deformation,” he said eventually. “Not even in those who ate of the wyrmkin corpses during the great hunger winter. But, Azár, did you not notice that their blood is black?” He pointed to several wounds and the puddles of blood on the ground. “It is like the blood of these Goblins whose bodies you brought back to the city.”

 

“You think there is a connection?” Azár asked. He wondered how his father could be so icy calm, so analytical in the face of the horror that had befallen their dead comrades.

 

“I do not know, but it sure looks like one,” Durin replied, rising to his feet and approaching the bridge. “They kept sitting on the other side since?”

 

“We did not see much in terms of movement,” Azár replied. “They erected their barrier and use it for cover. We did not try to get any closer, for it would have exposed us.”

 

Behind them they heard hasty steps. Brán and another dwarf – Skelan of Darkrock Pinnacle – came hasting towards them. Skelan bowed hastily to Durin. “My Lord, Greystone Hold is under attack… and so is Darkrock Pinnacle.”

 

TRB

 

In the silver light bathing the landscape outside the city Rávaner found his path up the hills where the grass grew long. He wanted to be alone, away from the city and its arguing elves, away from Fëanoro and his disapproval and away from whatever memories he might have once had of a brother. As he sat down in the soft grass he could hear the wind whisper in the long blades, a song so soft and alluring that it helped him calm down. Carefully he unwrapped the schistose tablet Ornamo had given him. It was of simple dark stone, broken off a larger rock and not much more.

 

The even surface was covered with uneven lines; it was nothing like the complex writings Rumil and Fëanoro had invented after their arrival in Valinor. This was much simpler, the very basic beginnings of the written language the elves were using now, but it still held meaning, though it was a long time that Rávaner had seen such writing.

 

Gently he traced his fingers over the lines, wondering what Itilano might have thought while writing this. Where had he been? What had he thought? Carefully, almost shyly, he began to decipher what was written on the stone.

 

_Rávaner,_

 

_When this message reaches you, you will no doubt be angry that we squandered all your efforts to bring us back to the others. Though, I am sure that, had you been here with us, you would have acted better and stronger than we had. Shortly after you left, we were attacked. The attacker did not come for us, but for Halanor, though he did make little difference between us and him. I do not know who he was or whence he had come. I only know he seemed to be of Halanor’s kind: tall and powerful, though not overly bright._

_Halanor tried to protect us, but he was wounded in the fighting, hampered by having to look out for us. Leraindo and I took our bows and went to assist Halanor. An arrow under the knee made our attacker rethink his strategy, if not for long. And now we have to flee, to find a better defensible hideout. Halanor insist he has to go alone, that he cannot drag us into his fights, but I disagree. We will not leave a friend to fend for himself, and thus we will go with him. I am sure you would have done the same._

_Ornamo disapproves of this decision; at one moment he even tried to betray us. So we will part ways and I have to hope that this message will somehow come into your hands. If you are reading this, I can only warn you of Ornamo. I hate to think one of our own so low, but he is envious of you and wants you harm._

_In my heart I hope we will be permitted to meet again one day. Until then, may the stars guide your path, my friend._

_Itilano_

Rávaner’s hands were shaking when he set down the stone slate, trying to think. Halanor was Melkor and if fighting had ensued, Itilano would have fought whomever the Valar themselves had sent after Melkor. He understood Itilano’s decision; had he been there, he would have done the same. And yet… Knowing the full scope of the events made him worry all the more.

 

But aside of that there was another nagging pain in his heart that he could not ignore, much as he tried to. In the end it was true. Melkor had told him the truth about Itilano staying out of his own volition and about the message. The lies had not originated from the Dark Vala, but from Rávaner’s own elven brother. And that was a truth that burned more painfully than he imagined it could. What had he done to wake Ornamo’s ire, his envy? Envy for what?

 

He stowed the slate away and rise to his feet. He could not go back to talk to Ornamo – they were no longer brothers – and he truly had no wish to have another debate with Fëanoro. He considered going home, to talk to Aralaimé, but he knew it would be wrong to burden his son with the past. He looked down. Who was he trying to lie to? He owed Halanor an apology for not believing him and maybe the enigmatic Vala could tell him more about what had transpired. With the silver light shining brightly and the wind rustling through the leaves and the grass, Rávaner began to make his way back to Valmar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who took up correcting it the moment she was back and who is still patient with my odd spelling. It also comes with thanks to Tara6 who helped with the fact-checking in an Age I feel less comfortable to write in. You both are brilliant.
> 
> The rest of my week will be a bit hectic, I might try to get a chapter out Tomorrow, but no guarantees for Thursday and Friday… just as a warning. I am generally not sure if I can keep this writing speed, as I am charting my way through much more unfamiliar terrain here. 


	5. Echoes of the void

When Maitimo came to Falquasinyë in the height of day, he was unsurprised to find Aralaimé busy in the workshop; it was something utterly familiar to him. Aralaimé looked up from the mesh of thin silver wires he was working on and greeted him with a smile. “If you were sent because of another argument down at that city, I will have to disappoint you. My father is not here.”

 

There were two things Maitimo heard in his words at once: one was that he spoke of _that city_ instead of Tirion, indicating a deep level of frustration and secondly the way he said his father was not there indicated he did not know where his father was or when he might return. The latter astonished Maitimo a little, usually Aralaimé would know where to find his father. He and Rávaner were very close, so close that sometimes Maitimo had wondered if even his mother Alacis was something of a stranger inside her own family. “Luckily I am not here because of that,” he replied with a smile, sitting down on the broad windowsill of the workshop. “The city is still entirely shut up about all that has transpired.”

 

Aralaimé took another silver wire from the flame and began to weave it into the mesh. “Good.” He twisted the tong to link the wire with the rest before setting it to cool. “You came here with a new idea to work on?”

 

Sometimes when Maitimo had wanted to try something out, far from the eyes of his critical father, he had come here and he enjoyed working with Aralaimé. “No,” he said. “But it is something I do need your help with. We do, Findekáno and I.” He was glad he had come here with something that had nothing to do with the tensions in Tirion, but with something that would distract Aralaimé from that for a while.

 

And it worked; Aralaimé put the tongs aside and cleaned his hands in the water barrel. “What happened?” he asked. “It cannot be one of your younger brethren getting in trouble again?” There was humor in Aralaimé’s words. He was about the same age as Maitimo and he had helped him more than once to search for wayward younger siblings.

 

Maitimo laughed, remembering some of their chases after Ambarussa and Telvo. “Findekanó went out on a ship with the Falmari a few days ago,” he said. “And he saw something amazing: a falling star, or a fiery ball streaking from the skies. He said it struck somewhere in the Pelori, behind that mountain that has three peaks.”

 

He knew that it would peak Aralaimé’s knowledge at once; Rávaner and Turayne were friends and had travelled across the Pelori more than once and as a result Aralaimé had often accompanied them as a child. “The three-peaked mountain? That would be the Peak of the Echoes in the Southern Ridge, right above the Avasar ravines,” he said. “You want to go and find out, I take it?”

 

“Preferably with you.” Maitimo hopped off the windowsill where he had been sitting. “The only other who might go would be Turayne and he seems strangely distracted of late. No one else will care.” Findekáno had told his father of what he had seen and found little interest in response. Maitimo did not mind at all; it would be much more interesting to find out together.

 

Aralaimé had already gone to the fire, beginning to put it out. “It will be a few hours’ worth of wandering to reach the Peak of Echoes,” he said. There was no issue with that, because all three of them were grown up elves, free in their comings and goings, unless their families decided that they were needed. “Where will we meet with Findekáno?”

 

Maitimo pointed out of the window and downhill. “He is waiting for us by the wellspring.” He had known that it would be easier to come here alone; Aralaimé had never said no when Maitimo had needed his help for something. But while Maitimo was familiar with this home, Findekáno would be a stranger here and that would have complicated things.

 

TRB

 

The golden light shone brightly again when Rávaner arrived in Valmar again and this time he did not hesitate to approach the house outside the city’s walls. He looked around where the guard might have gone, for he could not see the ethereal form of the Maia anywhere nearby.

 

“Rávaner, you must have walked swiftly to already be here again,” a familiar voice greeted him. Halanor stood a few steps away from the house. Whether he had only just returned here himself or had spent time outside, Rávaner could not tell.

 

“It is not that long a way from Tirion,” Rávaner replied. “I hope I did not arrive at an ill time?”

 

Halanor gestured towards the door of the house and they went inside, again sitting down by that wide arched window overlooking the valley. “It certainly is not, though I must admit I am surprised you returned.”

 

“I spoke to my brother.” Rávaner still felt a tension in his chest when he spoke of what had transpired, and yet it felt good to tell someone. “He truly did have the message Itilano gave him, just as you said.” He looked up to meet Halanor’s gaze. “I owe you an apology for doubting your words.”

 

Halanor smiled, his eyes warming a little. “There is no need,” he said. “You had to question if I told you the truth and with good reason. My… history had to make you doubt.”

 

And there it was, something that had already strangely touched Rávaner during his first visit here – maybe even during watching the trial unfold – the unspoken, yet pained, admission of Halanor’s past, the echo of sadness that came with it. If he was forgiven… should that not be behind him now? “No,” he said out loud. “It was not right. You never gave me reason to doubt your words. Others might have claimed that you could not be trusted, but that is not the same. I should have gone with what I knew, before I listened to the talk others brought to me.”

 

“The truth is a most complicated thing, my friend.” Halanor leaned back against the stone frame of the window. “It is a three-sided reflection and almost no one can see all three sides.”

 

“A three-sided reflection?” Rávaner found that picture fascinating, even if it sounded like a piece of complicated philosophy. “How so?”

 

“Imagine standing in front of a mirror and there is a stone pyramid between you and the mirror,” Halanor told him. “With your own eyes you can see one side of the pyramid; your side of the truth. If you pay attention, you may perceive the other side of the pyramid reflected in the mirror; the truth opposite to your own. But only a stranger standing sideways of you and the mirror could see the third side of the pyramid; the stranger’s view of your truth. Only all three together would make an objective picture of the pyramid  and very few people can see anything beyond their own truth.”

 

There was a point to his words, though Rávaner had never quite heard such a description of the search for truth. “Still, if I know fire to be red, having seen fire for myself, I should not let someone else tell me that fire is green,” he replied, coming back to what he had said before. “If we do not trust what we know, what we experienced… what else can we trust?”

 

“That would depend on how much or how little one knows.” Halanor’s eyes shone with something akin to mirth. “And just to tell you, fire could well be green, if one only manipulated the element rightly.”

 

“Truly?” Rávaner sat up straighter, leaning slightly forward. “I thought the elements just _were_ , their basic form unchangeable? _The four who shape the world are fixed in form, and where that form appears to change, it is only for the mix with another element, not for a true change of the element unto itself. Flame will remain fire and a river may not burn, nor a stone fly from the ground, as air will not take solid form._ ” He quoted the book that almost every arcane crafter amongst the elves had devoured at some point.

 

“The Elementarium,” Halanor sighed. “Is that all they taught you about the world? There is so much more to the elements and why they are shaped in the way they are and how they can change…” He rose, gesturing Rávaner to follow him. They went to the adjacent room, where a large table stood. Swiftly Halanor drew a circle on the table, and a much smaller one inside.

 

“All the world is, is a balance of powers that hold themselves in check,” he said. “The source of the arcane lies at the heart of it all, its power expanding perpetually outward, pushing against the void. The void contains the arcane and is expanded by it all the same.” He raised his hand and the symbols of the elements appeared around the small circle of the arcane. “The elements are empowered by the arcane, set alight and enabled to grow. They mesh and link with each other, expanding into the void. The void is their border and the void is necessary because only inside the void they have room to grow. You were taught that from water comes life, Earth nourishes, fire purifies and wind is the change that is needed for all growth, yet it is only one of many possible shapes the elements can take if rightly aligned into the arcane. Fire can give life, water may burn and air may become the destroyer if the arcane shapes their pattern right. There is no natural order of the elements, but many possible orders.”

 

Rávaner watched the patterns mesh and merge. What Halanor was explaining here pushed at his limits to understand, but he could grasp the concept. “So the arcane is the only source of power that touches the elements?” he asked. “But that would make it all unstable.”

 

Halanor laughed. “You read the Elementarium to some effect, I see,” he said. He raised his hand again and two new forms appeared outside the ring of elements: two opposing semi-circles. “These are the aspects. Their power stabilizes and defines the arcane. Light and Dark, the two aspects in which all that our world is rests, save for the void, which is the absence of all things. Light and Dark are not endless sources, though some will try to tell you that. They exist in a certain form and quantity. The Light you know; it is contained in the two trees, in the stars and in the very wells of Varda it may be found too. You see the works of its power each day and have been touched by its presence.”

 

“What of the Darkness? Wouldn’t it have a similar well?” Rávaner found it hard to tear his eyes away from the swirling lines on the table. Even while his mind struggled to grasp the concept in depth, he knew this was what made the world on itself, the very foundations of creation.

 

“Arda, my friend, conceals a great darkness,” Halanor replied. “If Valinor holds the Light of the world, Arda holds its Darkness, the source from which all Shadow stems. It is less contained than the Light, flowing freely through the deeps. I tried to… shape it, to create one well that would hold it, though I was only partially successful and my experimenting with the elements angered my brethren.”

 

“You did create a different order of elements?” Rávaner tried to imagine what Melkor had said and it certainly pushed the limits of his imagination.

 

“I did. It was small, imperfect and not entirely finished, when… when it all ended.” He sighed. “I should not speak of it; I do not wish you punished for it.”

 

“What was wrong with it?” Rávaner could not hold the question back. Maybe thinking of Melkor as Halanor helped him to overcome the natural awe he held towards the Vala.

 

“I do not know.” Halanor shook his head, his dark hair brushing his shoulders. “I do not know… and I worry. When I left your friends in the hideout I created, I was sure they’d be able to resist the changes of the place. I hope what I did to protect them was enough.”

 

“So, our kind could not exist amidst the changed elements?” Rávaner felt he should not push at this point and yet again he wondered where Itilano might be on this very hour.

 

“Not outright,” Halanor said. “Because your forms too are shaped by the elements and aspects that created you. To follow the changed elements, your own form would have to adjust as well.” He swiped his hand over the table and the lines and patterns vanished. “The smallest manipulations of the elements happen through their interactions, or their absences. You are an arcane crafter, so I take it you were taught how to access the arcane powers?”

 

“Small sparks of it, yes.” Rávaner accepted the change of topic, understanding that Halanor might not want to speak of a painful past. “I am not as good at it as others. Fëanoro can wield much more of the sparks unaided and to greater effect.”

 

“Sparks only?” Halanor arched an eyebrow. “The gift… the talent to wield such power was a gift explicitly given to the Firstborn.” He straightened up. “Show me.”

 

TRB

 

Maitimo had always fund the Pelori daunting and fascinating all the same. The peaks built an almost impenetrable wall around Valinor and it had something wild, untamed and mysterious. Although they were not that far away from Tirion, it felt like they were thousands of leagues from the next friendly home.

 

The path Aralaimé guided them on was hardly worth the name; the short grass might be treaded by whatever animals were living in the mountains, but otherwise he doubted that anyone ever set foot here. Their way wound along the dark rocks of the Peak of Echoes, and the closer they came the more Maitimo began to understand the name. Every sound they made, every moan and whisper of the wind was carried back to them, ringing out from the steep sides of the mountain.

 

Beside him Findekáno had stopped, taking in the sight of the grounds ahead of them. “I have the strangest feeling about this place, Maitimo,” he said, his eyes pointing ahead. “Like there is something here… something we should not approach.”

 

Maitimo peered ahead, but felt nothing of that sort. It was more of a curiosity what might lay behind the next ridge he experienced. He saw Aralaimé stop up ahead and turn back to them. He did not speak, he simply waited for them to catch up. When they reached him, he turned to Findekáno. “You said the fiery streak came down on this side of the peak?” He pointed towards the southern ridge.

 

“It did,” Findekáno confirmed. “I could see it very well; it passed that peak and then was too low to be seen any longer. Do you know where it would have landed?”

 

“Somewhere inside Arvalin, the ravines of Avasar,” Aralaimé replied. “Come, you will see a place like there is no other in this land.” He took the lead again and guided them onto a steep path that clung to the very side of the mountain. They needed to keep close to the rock face and there was always the danger of falling into the deep beside them. His back to the wall, using his arms to keep his balance, Maitimo’s heart beat faster as he tried to catch glimpses of the grounds deep below.

 

“Careful now, we are almost across the worst,” he heard Aralaimé say as they traversed a really thin band of rock and then came to stand on safer grounds again. Maitimo held his breath. It was unbelievable. They stood with their backs to the Pelori and before them lay a dark land, shielded from the light of the trees by the Pelori Mountains themselves. He could see ravines and ridges, steeped in shadow, overgrown with shadowy trees and rasping bushes. He had never seen a land untouched by light, shrouded in the perpetual blue and umbra of the night, but it was beautiful.

 

“There, that must be it.” Findekáno pointed ahead, towards one of the ridges above the ravines. “The trees there are singed and bent. Do you think we can get there?”

 

Maitimo’s eyes were already searching for a way. “Along that other ridge, across the ravine and then climb up,” he said after a moment. “Are you coming, Aralaimé?”

 

To his surprise the other elf caught his arm, holding him back. “Are you sure, Maitimo? I have never been down there. My father and Turayne warned me to never leave the zone where the light fades out. They said it was dangerous.”

 

“What could be dangerous, here?” Findekáno asked, shaking his head. “Come, let us find out what is down there.”

 

Maitimo smiled at his cousin. Findekáno understood him, understood the allure of the adventure. Together they began to climb down into the shadowed grounds.

 

Their eyes adjusted easily to the darkness enshrouding them. When they reached the ridge, they stood hip-deep in the whispering bushes, their leaves rustling in the wind. The grounds became rougher and there was no longer any semblance of a path, and consequently Maitimo often stumbled as he scouted the route they could take. Nevertheless he felt excited; this entire place reverberated inside him. He could not tell why, but he had never felt stronger or more alive. They reached the end of the ravine and climbed down. The rocks were sharp, with jagged edges, but for the three elves they were still passable.

 

When they stood at the bottom of the ravine, they found it shrouded in pale mists that clung to the rocks like pale silk banners on black masts. Maitimo blinked. Had something been moving at the back of the chasm? For a moment he had thought he had seen movement there. But now it was gone. He shrugged. In the darkness, with these mists, it was easy to see things that were not there.

 

Resolutely he turned to the other side of the chasm and began his climb up, always making sure Findekáno was close to him. Aralaimé followed last, always ready to help when necessary. When he pulled himself across the edge of the chasm, Maitimo found hold in a tree-trunk. He grabbed it and pulled himself out. A strange smell stung his nose and when he looked, he saw that the tree was scorched, black sooth and ash staining it. He had never seen a burned tree before, but this one was… dead, scorched by hot flame. The bushes around it were burned down to cinders as well. An entire circle of the grounds was blackened.

 

Maitimo helped Findekanó over the edge, seeing Aralaimé follow swiftly. “I think this must be where the fiery streak struck,” he said. “It scorched the plants all around, but what was it?”

 

“Whatever it was, it would be at the center of the devastation.” Findekanó frowned, taking in the radius of the scorching. “Somewhere there.” He pointed along the ridge they stood on. The ridge was narrow; to both sides fell the ravines of Avasar. The three elves balanced along the jagged edge carefully, until they reached the end of the ridge.

 

A large black stone lay there, surrounded by ash and sooth. The rock had broken apart, or was it broken open, and something shimmered inside. Maitimo squatted down beside it and craned his neck to see better. “I think there is a crystal inside, or a gem,” he said.

 

“To me it looks more like something else was inside,” Aralaimé observed. “Like something broke the rock open after it fell here.” He gestured to the shattered parts of the stone. “These look like they were broken apart from the inside out.”

 

Findekanó laughed, his bright voice echoing through the dark ravine. “Once a stone fell from the skies. It fell upon the peak of the Shadowed Mountain and broke apart. From the rubble rose Féarn and he walked through the land…”

 

Maitimo could see that Findekáno’s poetry even made Aralaimé smile. Findekáno had a wonderful gift for songs and stories; he could make a song out of almost anything, and this certainly inspired him. Maitimo could listen for hours when Findekáno was singing, or coming up with tales. “Let us take a look what is inside. Maybe the gem is so strong that it cracked the stone,” he said.

 

Breaking the scorched stone further apart was easy – the charred remains crumbled when Maitimo pulled at them – and under the sooth-stained, singed pieces he freed one bright stone. It was a gem of the deepest blue, shining like a bright star in the darkness. It was in the rough, uncut, but still there was a light inside. “It is beautiful,” Findekáno whispered awed. “I’d like to see what your father will make of this stone, Maitimo.”

 

“Or Aralaimé’s,” Maitimo mused. “This stone seems more suited to being shaped from the inside out than the other way around.” As he looked around for his friend, he saw that Aralaimé paid them no longer any heed. His eyes were focused on the ground of the ravine.

 

“Something is down there,” he said, his voice tense. “And it is moving towards us.” He pointed downwards and between the swirling mists of the Avasar Maitimo could see something moving; something crawled at the bottom of the rift. For a moment he perceived a huge body, carried by multiple legs, swiftly climbing through the chasm. Could there be spiders down there?

 

A noise behind him made him whirl around. The huge legs of a beast… a spider were perching over the edge of the chasm not far from them. The hair at his neck stood up when he saw a black spider climb up fully. There was an echo to the creature that he could not understand, like it was hollow, and yet he felt with utter clarity that this was no dumb beast. He grabbed the stone and pointed to the other side of the ledge. “Run.”

 

They made their way back again to the other end of the ledge. Maitimo hoped there would be a way to evade the chasm, for he did not want to climb down there again. Who knew how many spiders were inside? He heard an angry hiss behind them, but when he looked back he saw nothing but mist, swirling higher than before. When they reached the other end of the ridge, he spotted a ledge nearby. “We can jump over there,” he said. He waited for Findekáno and Aralaimé to go first and only then did Maitimo jump across the chasm, landing on another stripe of jagged rock. His knees hit the ground hard. Stones dug into him, but Aralaimé grabbed his arm and pulled him up.

 

Another hiss echoed through the mists and they saw spiders, smaller ones, encroaching on them. Some more were bustling down in the ravine. They were trapped between the chasm and a rock with no place to run.

 

TRB

 

Holding onto four sparks at once drove heavy beads of sweat on Rávaner’s forehead; it took all his focus to keep ahold of them, let alone direct them into a pattern, or an item. His hand shook as he raised it to draw the four small sparks together and intertwine them into one minuscule shape that formed a stone of light.

 

His mind was so deeply focused that he almost missed the soft tugging at his conscious thoughts, the vision intruding on his thinking and the sudden and imminent sense of danger washing over him. Overwhelmed he allowed it too late to form in his mind; the vision crashed in on him with massive impact and he saw his son running across a dark ridge, chased by spiders… The pictures whirled and pushed at him. He lost hold of the sparks and the power winked out, leaving him drained. He almost collapsed to his knees as he gasped for breath.

 

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. “What happened?” Halanor’s voice echoed concern. “You suddenly lost all hold on your focus, tenuous as that might be.”

 

“My son.” Rávaner found the strength to stand again. All elves had a bit of the vision sight – most of them could perceive visions of their family at times – though it rarely had such an impact. A part of him wondered if there was a way to shut out such visions to prevent danger when working the arcane. “He… he is in danger. He must have ventured beyond the Pelori.”

 

“There should be nothing dangerous in this land,” Halanor said, his eyes narrowing. “Can you tell where beyond the Pelori?”

 

His calm presence helped Rávaner more than he could say; the questions to analyze what he had seen helped him deal with the shock. He called up the pictures again and focused on the shapes of the mountains he saw, even as they were seen from the wrong side. “Peak of Echoes,” he said after a while. “They must be somewhere in Arvalin. I have to go find them. Whatever these spiders are, they do not look like something even Turayne could tame.”

 

“Spiders?” Halanor’s frown deepened. “There should be no such creatures in this land, nor should there be any danger for your people…” He turned around when the Ethereal Guardian appeared inside. Whether he had called for him or the guardian had acted on his own, Rávaner could not tell. “Rávaner’s son is in danger. I shall accompany him to help,” Halanor said firmly. “Will you come with us?”

 

Strangely the guardian smiled. “I had only come to tell you that my orders were changed, Melkor,” he said, his voice almost warm. “If you are with one of the Eldar, you are from now on free to go wherever you please.” With that he vanished as swiftly as he had come.

 

“Help would have been too much to expect,” Halanor said under his breath, before he turned back to Rávaner. “Will you allow me to come with you? You do not know what your son walked into.”

 

The words reminded Rávaner so much of the help Halanor had given them back during the wandering and he was glad the Vala was here. “I would be grateful for your help,” he said. Much as he did not want to admit it, the exercise and the vision had left him strained and if there was danger afoot, he could not be sure he was able to deal with it alone. Without any more words they left the house and made their way south, towards the Pelori.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> This chapter comes with thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who took up correcting it the moment she was back and who is still patient with my odd spelling. It also comes with thanks to Tara6 who helped with the fact-checking in an Age I feel less comfortable to write in. You both are brilliant.


	6. In need of a blade

Findekáno almost missed the edge of the rocks when he jumped, but Maitimo managed to grab his arm and pull him to safety. No, this new ledge did not deserve that name, though it was free of spiders for the moment. In their flight away from the spiders the three young elves had been driven deeper and deeper into Arvalin. Any attempt to return to the Pelori had been cut off by the huge spiders, that were crawling in the chasms below. Fleeing further west along the dark stripe of land had certainly bought them time, but a nagging voice in Maitimo whispered that if they did not find a way to defend themselves from their pursuers, it was only a matter of time until they were captured. And for what reason the spiders hunted them he hardly dared to ask.

 

His eyes trained on the grounds ahead he saw that the ravines were coming to an end, making room for an open plain falling towards the sea. It was as dark as the ravines, steeped in the shadows of the Pelori, but it would allow them to run swifter. “That way,” he decided, having already seen how they could reach the more stable grounds. It meant one last jump from the ledge where they stood towards the edge of the cliff that framed the plainer grounds. He gestured Aralaimé to go first and he followed in the direction his friend had given him, landing safely on the other side. Findekáno and Maitimo followed, and soon they came to stand under one of the strange, dark trees that grew in this shadowed land.

 

Maitimo looked around as he was catching his breath. “Maybe we can shake them off in the open,” he said, as they took off, running through the high grass that rustled in the strong western gale.

 

“We need to get out of the shadows.” Aralaimé’s voice was tense; there was an edge to it that Maitimo could not quite name. “I doubt they’d dare to follow us into the Light.”

 

“We can try.” Maitimo silently agreed that returning to the Pelori was their best chance, and maybe the plain stretched to the foot of the Mountains somewhere west of them? As they ran he began to hope that they might truly shake off the spiders, for he could not see any of them behind anymore.

 

Yet when they turned northwest, to run towards the mountains they soon reached a den; a huge circular hole in the ground, where neither grass nor trees grew. Only stones and sand marked a pit that sat like a stain in the midst of the dark plain. Maitimo stopped. He could not tell what this place was, but he felt it would be wrong to continue. “We better go around this,” he said. He set the example himself by following the rim of the lifeless zone.

 

The ground began to shake. A few stones came loose and rolled away, as earth and sand began to run towards the center of the pit, like they were drawn into a sinkhole. Making sure none of his friends was close to the drifting zone, Maitimo too sought a greater distance, but a new quake of the ground threw him down, only moments before a huge hairy leg emerged from the hole, finding purchase in the soft sand right beside him. The leg was huge; it was taller than Maitimo himself. He scrambled to his feet, only to see two more legs emerge from the sinkhole.

 

A huge spider pulled itself from the pit, the body so big that it easily towered the mighty. It was as black as the darkness around them and peered at them from a set of shining red insect-like eyes. _I am hunger,_ a voice echoed coldly in Maitimo’s ears. _And I am thirst._ The words felt like a burning knife etching into his skull.

 

He staggered backwards, half colliding into Findekáno. His friend was pale with fear. As he looked around, he saw Aralaimé a few steps away from them, blocked from reaching them by one of the spider’s legs. They were separated, they could not run and they could not fight it either.

 

TRB

 

Rávaner did not know how he managed to run like that. He knew that he should be exhausted; the strain from the arcane practice before had not yet passed, but he did not feel it at all. He did not feel any tiredness, like a strange power was pushing him easily beyond his usual limits. He was not sure if Halanor’s presence was responsible for that, and he certainly did not question it. They approached the Pelori faster than he had hoped to reach them. It was the first time that Halanor slowed down, turning to him. “Which way?” he asked, his eyes searching the heights ahead of them.

 

It was for the first time that Rávaner realized that Melkor might be less familiar with this land than he was. Had he ever dwelt here in peace? It felt strange and wrong that he should know a path in this land the Vala did not know. Still, he took the lead, guiding them on the narrow path that crossed the Pelori. “You have scouted this land before?” Halanor asked, as they continued at the same rapid pace.

 

“I missed wandering.” Rávaner did not know why he admitted to that, because he had never shared this with anyone. “It took me a while to settle down.” He jumped on the narrow band of rock that wound along the Peak of Echoes, continuing on towards the southern side. Halanor followed him with ease. When they reached the edge that allowed them to see the ravines of Avasar, Rávaner saw teeming movements down there in the shadows between the mists. He sighed. “I warned Aralaimé to never go down there.”

 

“Those who are young will always test the boundaries others set them,” Halanor replied, his voice almost amused. “Can you tell where he is now?”

 

Rávaner closed his eyes. He listened inside, like he had done on their wandering when he had been searching for those who were lost, when often only his intuition had guided him through the dark. “Further west,” he said after a moment. The feeling of danger and doom crashed down on him. It was a warning so fierce, it would have deterred him from continuing onwards, had he not known others in danger down there.

 

Here Halanor took the lead again. Though he could not know the lay of the land ahead of them, he guided them through the night with an uncanny sense for direction and danger, navigating the maze of chasms and leading them around any trouble swiftly. When they reached the dark plain west of the chasms Rávaner’s heart skipped painfully. A huge spider, the largest he could have imagined, sat on the plain, fighting with three familiar figures, that were almost trapped between thick ropes of spider web.

 

One leg rose high into the air, threatening to crush Maitimo. Rávener bended down and picked up a few small rocks, throwing them at the spider’s raised leg. If he only still had his bow to fight this thing! His aim had been true; the stones hit the leg just at the joint and the spider made a high-pitched angry noise, turning away from Maitimo and towards Rávaner. In turning the beast still tried to smash Maitimo and Aralaimé, but Rávaner saw a shimmering barrier in the air that protected the two youths.

 

He had no time to think about how Halanor had done this, so he picked up the next rock, tossing it at the spider to keep its attention as he sprinted towards the side of the cliff where the grass had grown into hard, dried reeds. The beast followed, and each new hit only enraged it more. Rávaner broke off one of the hard reeds – the material splintered under his hands – and turned the sharp side against the spider, to use as a weapon. It was not much, but it was all he had.

 

The spider was closing in fast. Huge legs stomping towards Rávaner, but he ducked under the first, and rammed the reed into the lowest joint of the second. The spider shrieked like never before and ropes of white web flew towards him. Rávener rolled over the ground, dodging the attack. Behind the spider he saw that all three youths had escaped the trap. Now he had only to keep the spider busy enough for them to flee. He broke off another reed, but found his path blocked by another web.

 

_Flame, Rávaner. Draw the sparks into a pattern… Fire will help._

He heard the voice echo in his mind. It was Halanor, but his presence was so much more powerful when not tempered by the barriers of flesh. The pattern he had made Rávaner see was seemingly simple; four sparks intertwined like spiral turning in on itself. He did not understand what it meant, for he had no medium to work the spark into. He jumped over the spider’s leg and so evaded the next attack, whilst trying to reach for the arcane. It was hard to draw on the well while running from a spider, and harder still to keep ahold of four sparks. The small specks of light had never been harder to hold or to control than in this very moment.

 

Rávener pushed them towards the pattern he had been shown, forcing them to link with each other, and then released them into the grass. He felt a surge, a wave of sheer power rush through him as the pattern jumped into completion, sinking into the grass. Suddenly flames sprung up from everywhere under the spider, singing the beast’s belly.

 

The spider jumped away, screaming, trying to evade the rapidly burning dry grass. Rávaner saw his chance to reach the others. Halanor had pushed them towards the mountains. When he reached them, they were already climbing up the steep rocks leading back towards the light and Halanor was fending off several small spiders, throwing them far into the plain towards the fire. He too had no weapon, but he fought like none was needed. It was the first time Rávaner saw a Vala let go of the calm pretense they usually showed at peace, and delve into the powers he wielded.

 

More spiders came. Melkor raised his hand and sharp shards of ice appeared out of the air, cutting them apart. Rávaner knew he could not let him fight alone, so he drew on the sparks again. It was harder than before, his focus even shakier, but he managed to form the pattern of flame again, pushing it towards the spiders. This time the pattern touched the spiders themselves, and they erupted in flame, burning alive like cinders. Deep down a part of Rávaner was horrified at seeing them burn. Knowing he had set them aflame by sheer will alone, a small part of him felt sick at the thought, while a much stronger part of him was exhilarated; they were not helpless against these beasts. The great spider closed in again and he saw Melkor raise his hand. What happened he could not tell, but suddenly the spiders began to retreat, to crawl back to the various holes they had in the ground.

 

“We better leave.” Melkor gestured towards the steep path uphill. “They might not be deterred for long.” They climbed up the rocks, a steep and unforgiving path, until they finally reached the saddle between Peak of Echoes and Dreamer’s Eye Peak and stood in the light of the Trees again.

 

Rávaner was still breathing hard as he turned to the three younger elves. “Are you injured?” he asked, surveying them swiftly. “Was any of you bitten by those things?”

 

“Only scratches.” Aralaimé too was panting. He leaned his hands against his knees, hiding that they were shaking. “No bites and no blood.”

 

Maitimo straightened up. He, unlike his friend, sported a few scratches on his bare arms. “It was my fault, Rávaner,” he said, approaching the older elf. “It was I who insisted we go down there, so what happened was my mistake.”

 

Rávaner smiled. Maitimo was a good person; he stood up for his mistakes, though he obviously expected trouble. Who knew how his father would react to such an adventure? With six little brothers he was probably expected to be the sensible and reliable one. “The next time you walk into a dangerous situation, have a plan on how to get out,” he said with a smile. “If you have learned something about your own limits today, this was maybe not such a big mistake after all.”

 

He could see how Maitimo relaxed, though the surprise was clear on his face. “Still, if harm had come to Findekanó or Aralaimé…”

 

“Maitimo, there is no use in dwelling on what ifs,” Rávaner said firmly. “We can only learn from what happened, and grow stronger for it. I appreciate that you want to take responsibility; it says a lot of good things about you, but instead of beating yourself up about things that did not happen, learn from them. And have a plan next time.”

 

The redhead nodded, a small smile shining in his eyes. “Thank you, Rávaner…”

 

The rest of the words seemed to fade from Rávaner’s hearing, as his sight blurred and everything began to spin around him. His knees buckled, and a freezing chill seeped into his bones. He was shaking when his knees hit the ground, as the very breath in his lungs almost choked him.

 

Maitimo recognized the reaction at once; his father had shown the same symptoms when he had drawn on too much power as he created the first of the Palantíri. He had explained to him later that wielding too much of the arcane had a heavy impact on the body. He squatted down beside Rávaner and steadied him, feeling the chills run through the other elf. “The arcane flow… He is having a backlash reaction,” he said out loud. “Aralaimé, is there any settlement nearby?”

 

“No, we are away from any,” Aralaimé replied, worry echoing in his voice. “What is happening, Maitimo? I have never seen this before.”

 

“I have,” Maitimo replied, helping Rávaner to a stable sitting position. “He drew on too much of the arcane and now he is having a backlash. My father had several, some very severe. He needs rest, warmth and whisperleaf tea.”

 

“You suffer a reaction when drawing on the arcane?” Melkor had spoken, and while Maitimo did not like his company, he could not deny that the dark Vala had helped them and seemed genuinely worried about Rávaner.

 

“Yes, it happens in small leaps when a youth first taps into the talent,” Maitimo explained. He had been through this with all of his brothers. “Small taps into a spark will cause fevers, shakes and sometimes dizziness. It fades with time as the affinity to the arcane develops, but when drawing on too much later, a much severer reaction will happen.”

 

“Which too should fade once the focus is firmly established,” Melkor’s frown deepened. “I thought he was beyond that stage, or I’d never have shown him how to create fire.”

 

A shiver ran through Rávaner as he collapsed in on himself, passing out entirely. Maitimo felt a cold hand grip his heart. “The healers warned my father against this. They said there was danger he’d not wake again if he passed out from the exhaustion.” He felt all the more guilty for what had happened, now that he saw Rávaner’s prone form on the ground.

 

“His mind is straying, but not yet broken from his body.” Melkor carefully lifted Rávaner’s unconscious body up, having no problems at all to carry the elf. “Can I trust you three to find your own way back? I will have him faster in Valmar on my own.”

 

Maitimo bit his lip. Could he trust the dark Vala with the life of another elf? On the other hand, Rávaner seemed to have chosen to trust Melkor by himself, so it was not Maitimo’s choice to make. He looked to Aralaimé, who nodded slowly. “We will return to Tirion on our own,” he said. “Will… will there be help for Rávaner in Valmar?” It was a stupid question. If amongst all the Valar and Maiar of the city there was none to help Rávaner, then only Mandos himself could.

 

TRB

 

Greystone Hold was burning. Thick smoke emanated from any building not yet collapsed, and the stench of blood and churning flesh hung in the air beyond that. The fire had driven the dwarrow from their buildings, forcing them to give ground to the attacking goblins, even though between the fires the battle was still raging. Durin had hoped it would look less grim when he arrived at the Hold. After losing Darkrock Pinnacle to the attackers, he had prayed that Azár had been lucky enough to hold Greystone, but now that he saw the fires and the fleeing dwarrow he knew his hopes had been in vain.

 

“My Lord, you must not go in.” One of the fleeing dwarrow stopped in front of him, using her axe to support herself. “Azár only remained behind to cover the retreat. The whole cavern will collapse once we are out.”

 

Beside them hastened other dwarrow, fighters, youngsters, all of them scrambling across the bridge to the safety of the tunnels leading further towards the dwarrow territory. Durin disliked what he heard, though he saw the sense in the plan. He swiftly gestured his warriors to aid the fleeing, while he himself advanced further towards the hold. Some more warriors raced his way, many injured, some supporting their stumbling comrades. Azár was the last on the bridge, covering them. He stumbled under the attack of several creatures, and then collapsed under the fierce hit of a hammer.

 

Durin charged forward. He swung his axe in a wide arch to decapitate two of the attackers. A third was kicked off the bridge, and a fourth got the handle of his axe into the stomach, before his skull was split as well. He saw Azár stagger back to his feet, fighting on with an axe that was half shattered. As they retreated further across the bridge, Azár’s axe was hacked into pieces and he was forced to use his dagger to fend another creature off.

 

Finally they reached the other end of the bridge and the tunnel, the last to make it to safety. “Now!” Azár shouted to Falún.

 

Durin saw the other dwarrow nod and bring his axe down against the steel ropes used to hold the support structures of the cavern in place, while another dwarrow smashed a structure that was the only thing still holding one of the rock pillars in place. A horrible crack went through the ceiling of the cavern and moments later it collapsed, burying Greystone Hold under tons of rock. The ground shook and dust flew, as the darkness settled into the tunnel.

 

The panting of many dwarrow echoed loudly into the sudden silence after the collapse. “That should hold them off for a while,” Azár said. “We need better defenses if we are going to hold them off permanently.”

 

Silently Durin agreed. Their fighting up to this moment had been dictated by the situation, reacting to what happened. They needed to plan a better line of defense against further incursions. He reached up to steady himself against the wall, when he felt something cold and oily under his fingers. Disgusted he retracted his hand. Was blood truly leaking through the stones? It did not smell like blood though.

 

A blue light made him close his eyes as the blue jewel around his neck began to shine brightly, its light illuminating the wall of broken stone, where a black, oily water was slowly dripping through the cracks in the stone. The black smears on Durin’s own hand burned and itched before peeling off his hand, like the glow of the stone itself was averse to the dark stain. “We need to get our people out of this tunnel.” Durin’s own voice sounded rough to his ears as he spoke. “Quickly!” His mind was racing. While he did not know what this was, it was too much like the black blood of the creatures or of the twisted dwarrow they had fought.

 

Azár had already heard the order. The warriors still standing helped the wounded to leave the tunnel, making sure no one remained behind. The blue stone continued shining like an angry star until Durin too had left the passageway.

 

And far away, further away than miles could express, Turayne woke with a start as a fierce vision intruded into his resting mind.

 

TRB

 

Rávaner’s mind was adrift, lost without orientation in a blackness that stretched into all directions. He could not see what lay beyond, and he could scarcely hear the echo of his own voice as he called out. But no matter how often he called, only the fain echo of his own voice returned to him. There was nothing but darkness around and while he could move in any direction, direction itself lost its meaning in the emptiness.

 

_The world is made of the elements, as they are empowered by the arcane, which in turn is constrained by the void, which holds all things. The void is the absence of them all and the only place the world can exist in._

 

He remembered what Halanor had taught him. Could this be the void? Had his mind somehow wandered into the emptiness? If so, how had it happened and how could he find his way back? Certainly not by walking through the void, for the emptiness was endless. As Rávaner looked around, he realized he could see stars, though they were far away specks, their light no more than flickers far away.

 

“You should not stray too soon to the place where the world ends,” a familiar voice said behind him.

 

Rávaner’s breath caught in his throat as he turned around. Halanor had found him. It was only that here, inside the void, in a place where only spirits may walk, it was not Halanor, but Melkor, the dark Vala in all his power and no amount of preparation could stifle the surprise and awe Rávaner felt. “I… I did not mean to…” He hardly found his own voice.

 

Melkor’s eyes darkened a little. “I wish you had not been taught to be so subservient to my kind,” he said, his voice echoing clearly through the darkness. “It was never meant to be that way.”

 

His anger was fierce enough to make Rávaner want to take a step back, but the elf did not; he had never cowed to fear, especially when there was no reason to. It was more for friendship’s sake that Melkor was angry. “And I truly do not know how I came to be here,” he said, trying to not discuss the other topic.

 

“You were taught the beginnings of the arcane, without control of the void.” Melkor calmed, his form shrinking, diminishing until he was only a little taller than Rávaner. “I do not know what my brethren thought they were doing, and why they would keep this gift from you. But for you, Rávaner, the barrier is broken. You must master the control of the void and your own inner spark to survive. I truly did not know that this would happen.”

 

Rávaner remembered the surge of power during the fighting. Maybe there was more to the talent than they knew? “What do I need to do?” he asked.

 

“First you must learn to find your own form again,” Melkor said. “Usually we would do this the other way round; I would tell you to imagine a void and find a spark in it, but now you have to embrace the void and make it a spark. Reach out, Rávaner, draw the emptiness towards you, inside you… You are the void, becoming light, you are the emptiness becoming fire…”

 

Following the almost hypnotic voice Rávaner did what Melkor said, drawing the void towards him. It hurt at first, until the compressed emptiness became flame inside his mind, and suddenly he could see both: the void and the spark, one balancing the other, one holding the other. He tried to speak, but suddenly the void melted away and Rávaner found himself back in his own body, shivering and shaking with exhaustion, but alive.

 

Melkor sat beside him. They were back at his house in Valmar, and his eyes were worried when they met Rávaner’s gaze. “This could have easily killed you, my friend,” he said. “You have a strong talent, but almost no training at all.”

 

Sitting up, Rávaner averted his eyes. “Then I will have to learn.” His entire body felt like he had been running for days on end; weak and exhausted. “If… if you were allow me to learn, that is.”

 

This time there was a genuine smile in Melkor’s eyes. “I will gladly teach you, though I fear I always was a harsh mentor, especially for those I cared for.”

 

TRB

 

Maitimo was relieved when they reached Falquasinyë again, and while he was worried about Rávaner, there was also a part of him that did not regret the adventure they had beyond the Pelori. During those fear-filled, dangerous hours he had felt something, a strength he had never known before.

 

“I hope your father will recover,” he heard Findekáno say to Aralaimé. “I know little of the powers you crafters are playing with, but they deem me more dangerous than might be good.”

 

“He will be all right. I can feel it,” Aralaimé replied with a small smile. “And while those powers are dangerous, they are also wonderful, Findekáno. Like all great things they are terrible and wonderful to behold, dangerous to wield and yielding their best results only to those not afraid.”

 

Findekáno shook his head. “I hear what you say, Aralaimé, and I still hold that there are things better left alone and risks not worth taking. Why play with fire when it could burn the house?”

 

“But he calls for the storm, because in the gale he found peace,” Maitimo quoted a song he had once heard from Rávaner. “Your words are wise, my friend.” He held the gaze of Findekáno, hoping his cousin might understand. “Probably wiser than Aralaimé or I will ever be, but I’d rather be a little less wise and…”

 

“… and more often in danger,” Findekáno finished wryly, but his smile was warm. “Then I will have to be there to help you out of your own troubles, my friend.”

 

“I still wonder why the spiders kept coming after us once we left the fallen stone,” Aralaimé observed, as he brought some clear water from the well in the yard. They all were thirsty.

 

Now Maitimo could not hold back on a grin. “Because I took this with me, as we ran.” He pulled something from the pouch at his belt. It was the jewel from the heaven stone, but it had broken in three similar pieces as he had picked it up, all three stones shining brightly under the light. “I think those beasts wanted to eat them.”

 

“You took them before we ran?” Findekáno’s eyes widened. “How could you event think in the middle of all that?”

 

“I don’t know, I just acted,” Maitimo shrugged. His mind had been clear, focused as they had raced across the Avasar. “And I think each of us should keep one of the pieces.” He did not know what kind of jewel it was, or why it had broken into exactly three identical shards, but it was perfect in a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with thanks to the wonderful LadyDunla who took up correcting it the moment she was back and who is still patient with my odd spelling. It also comes with thanks to Tara6 who helped with the fact-checking in an Age I feel less comfortable to write in. You both are brilliant.
> 
> I know this is another slowdown but I caught a severe summer cold and spend a lot of time in bed right now, so things will be slower for a while. *hugs*

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Silmarillion, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien. All characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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